Literature 

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Si  u  d  11  oi '  I ,  a  ti0ii 

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Houakton  Mifflin 


73^.27 


KtoettfiDe  iliterattire 


LITEKATUKE  FOR  THE 
STUDY  OF  LANGUAGE 

AS  SUGGESTED   BY  THE  COURSE  OF  STUDY  FOR 
THE   COMMON   SCHOOLS  OF  NORTH   DAKOTA 

ARRANGED   BY 

R.  M.  BLACK 

FOR  THE  COMMITTEE  ON  COURSE  OF  STUDY 

REVISED  IN  ACCORDANCE  WITH 
THE  1912  COURSE  OF  STUDY 


BOSTON    NEW  YORK    CHICAGO 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ftitoeitfibe 


OFFICIAL  ENDORSEMENT 

The  publication  of  this  book  was  approved  by  the  Stand- 
ing Committee  of  Superintendents  on  the  North  Dakota 
State  Course  of  Study,  and  by  the  Department  of  Public 
Instruction  for  use  in  connection  with  the  work  in  Reading 
and  Language  in  the  Course  of  Study  for  the  Common 
Schools  of  North  Dakota. 


COPYRIGHT,   1908,    1913,    BY   HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 


<Cftf  Bibertfce  $re«0 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .    S    .   A 


CONTENTS 

THIRD  YEAR 

First  Month  PAQB 

SEPTEMBER  Helen  Hunt  Jackson         1 

Second  Month 

OCTOBER'S  BRIGHT  BLUE  WEATHER 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson         2 
Third  Month 

THE  CORN-SONG  John  Greenleaf  Whittier         3 

Fourth  Month 

THE  FIRST  SNOW-FALL    James  Russell  Lowell        5 

Fifth  Month 

WINTER-TIME  Robert  Louis  Stevenson         7 

Sixth  Month 

THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow         7 
Seventh  Month 

MARCH  William  Cullen  Bryant         9 

Eiijlitk  Month 

SWEET  AND  Low  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson       10 

THE  UGLY  DUCKLING 

Hans  Christian  Andersen       11 
Ninth  Month 

THE  BROOK  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson       17 

FOURTH  YEAR 
First  Month 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY    John  Greenleaf  Whittier       19 


2986S9 


vi  CONTENTS 

Second  Month 

DUTCH  LULLABY  Eugene  Field       22 

Third  Month 

THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow       24 
Fourth  Month 

THE  SPARROWS  Celia  Thaxter       26 

Fifth  Month 

SNOW-BOUND  (Selections :  —  THE  STORM  ;  THE 

KITCHEN  SCENE)       John  Greenleaf  Whittier       28 
PSALM  CXXI  The  Bible      31 

Sixth  Month 

OLD  IRONSIDES  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes       32 

Seventh  Month 

I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER        Thomas  Hood       33 

Eighth  Month 

'  THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING         Felicia  D.  Hemans       34 

Ninth  Month 

THE  LEAK  IN  THE  DYKE  Phoebe  Gary       37 


FIFTH   YEAR 
First  Month 

BARBARA  FRIETCHIE    John  Greenleaf  Whittier      43 

Second  Month 

LEAD,  KINDLY  LIGHT       John  Henry  Newman       46 

Third  Month 

THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  IN 
NEW  ENGLAND  Felicia  D.  Hemans       46 

Fourth  Month 

LITTLE  GOTTLIEB  Phoebe  Gary       48 

Fifth  Month 

AMERICA  Samuel  Francis  Smith       52 


CONTENTS  vii 

Sixth  Month 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN        William  Cullen  Bryant       53 

Seventh  Month 

THE  STAB-SPANGLED  BANNER 

Francis  Scott  Key       54 
Eighth  Month 

PAUL  REVERE'S  RIDE 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow       55 
Ninth  Month 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY 

Francis  Miles  Finch       60 

WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE 

George  Pope  Morris       62 


SIXTH   YEAR 
First  Month 

GLUCK'S  VISITOR   (First  Visit)       John  Ruskin       64 

Second  Month 

MAIZE,  THE  NATION'S  EMBLEM     Celia  Thaxter       69 

Third  Month 

THE  CLOUD  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley       70 

Fourth  Month 

CHRISTMASTIDE  Richard  Burton       73 

Fifth  Month 

KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  ANTS 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier       73 
SNOW-BOUND     (Selections  :  —  THE     MOTHER  ; 
THE  SISTERS;  THE  SCHOOLMASTER) 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier       75 
Sixth  Month 

WASHINGTON  (from  ODE  TO  NAPOLEON  BUON- 
APARTE) Lord  Byron      80 


viii  CONTENTS 

Seventh  Month 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow       82 
Eighth  Month 

THE  RUBY-CROWNED  KINGLET 

Henry  van  Dyke       83 
To  A  WATERFOWL          William  Cullen  Bryant       85 

Ninth  Month 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 

Theodore  O'Hara      87 


SEVENTH   YEAR 

First  Month 

YUSSOUF  James  Russell  Lowell       91 

PSALM  XIX  The  Bible       92 

Second  Month 

THE  HUSKERS  John  Greenleaf  Whittier       93 

Third  Month 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS          James  Russell  Lowell       97 
MIDNIGHT  James  Russell  Lowell      97 

Fourth  Month 

THE    PRESENT  CRISIS       James  Russell  Lowell       99 

Fifth  Month 

THE  FROST  SPIRIT       John  Greenleaf  Whittier     104 

Sixth  Month 

THOSE  EVENING  BELLS  Thomas  Moore     106 

THE  GETTYSBURG  SPEECH      Abraham  Lincoln     106 

Seventh  Month 

THE  OAK  James  Russell  Lowell     107 

Eighth  Month 

To  THE  DANDELION         James  Russell  Lowell     109 


CONTENTS  ix 

Ninth  Month 

To  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON 

James  Russell  Lowell     111 


EIGHTH   YEAR 

First  Month 

RECESSIONAL  Rudyard  Kipling    113 
THE    VILLAGE    PREACHER  (from    THE    DE- 
SERTED VILLAGE)  Oliver  Goldsmith    114 

Second  Month 

ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier     116 
THE  AMERICAN  FLAG    Joseph  Rodman  Drake     118 

Third  Month 

FOR  AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier     120 
Fourth  Month 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson     122 
Fifth  Month 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes     124 
THE  NEW  YEAR          John  Greenleaf  Whittier     126 

Sixth  Month 

ICHABOD  John  Greenleaf  Whittier     131 

SIR  GALAHAD  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson     133 

Seventh  Month 

THE  LITTLE  LAND        Robert  Louis  Stevenson     135 
SELECTIONS  FROM  SNOW-BOUND  (THE  UNCLE  ; 
THE  AUNT  ;  THE  END  OF  THE  DAY  ;  MORN- 
ING) John  Greenleaf  Whittier     138 
THE  PARABLE  OF  THE  SOWER          The  Bible    142 


x  CONTENTS 

Eighth  Month 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS 

William  Cullen  Bryant     144 
Ninth  Month 

MY  NATIVE  LAND    (from  THE   LAY  OF  THE 

LAST  MINSTREL)  Sir  Walter  Scott     146 

CROSSING  THE  BAR        Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson     147 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  149 

INDEX  OF  TITLES  151 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB  18 

THE  KITCHEN  IN  WHITTIER'S  HOME  28 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW  54 

CRAIGIE  HOUSE,  CAMBRIDGE  82 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  90 

ELMWOOD,  CAMBRIDGE  106 

ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON  122 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  144 


LITERATURE    FOR    THE    STUDY 
OF    LANGUAGE 


THIRD  YEAR 

SEPTEMBER l 
HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON 

THE  golden-rod  is  yellow  ; 

The  corn  is  turning  brown ; 
The  trees  in  apple  orchards 

With  fruit  are  bending  down. 

The  gentian's  bluest  fringes  5 

Are  curling  in  the  sun ; 
In  dusty  pods  the  milkweed 

Its  hidden  silk  has  spun. 

The  sedges  flaunt  their  harvest, 

In  every  meadow  nook  ;  10 

And  asters  by  the  brook-side 
Make  asters  in  the  brook. 

From  dewy  lanes  at  morning 
The  grapes'  sweet  odors  rise ; 

At  noon  the  roads  all  flutter  15 

With  yellow  butterflies. 

By  all  these  lovely  tokens 

September  days  are  here, 
With  summer's  best  of  weather, 

And  autumn's  best  of  cheer.  20 

1  Used  by  permission  of  Messrs.  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  the 
authorized  publishers  of  Helen  Hunt  Jackson's  writings. 


THIRD  YEAR 

But  none  of  all  this  beauty 

Which  floods  the  earth  and  air 

Is  unto  me  the  secret 

Which  makes  September  fair. 

'T  is  a  thing  which  I  remember ;  25 

To  name  it  thrills  me  yet ; 
One  day  of  one  September 

I  never  can  forget. 


OCTOBER'S   BRIGHT   BLUE  WEATHER* 
HELEN  HDNT  JACKSON 

O  SUNS  and  skies  and  clouds  of  June, 

And  flowers  of  June  together, 
Ye  cannot  rival  for  one  hour 

October's  bright  blue  weather, 

When  loud  the  bumble-bee  makes  haste,  5 

Belated,  thriftless,  vagrant, 
And  Golden-Rod  is  dying  fast, 

And  lanes  with  grapes  are  fragrant : 

When  Gentians  roll  their  fringes  tight 

To  save  them  for  the  morning,  10 

And  chestnuts  fall  from  satin  burrs 
Without  a  sound  of  warning ; 

When  on  the  ground  red  apples  lie 

In  piles  like  jewels  shining, 
And  redder  still  on  old  stone  walls  15 

Are  leaves  of  woodbine  twining ; 

1  Used  by  permission  of  Messrs.  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  the 
authorized  publishers  of  Helen  Hunt  Jackson's  writings. 


THIRD  YEAR  3 

When  all  the  lovely  wayside  things 
Their  white-winged  seeds  are  sowing, 

And  in  the  fields,  still  green  and  fair, 

Late  aftermaths  are  growing ;  20 

When  springs  run  low,  and  on  the  brooks, 

In  idle  golden  freighting, 
Bright  leaves  sink  noiseless  in  the  hush 

Of  woods,  for  winter  waiting ; 

When  comrades  seek  sweet  country  haunts,     25 

By  twos  and  twos  together, 
And  count  like  misers  hour  by  hour, 

October's  bright  blue  weather. 

O  suns  and  skies  and  flowers  of  June, 

Count  all  your  boasts  together,  30 

Love  loveth  best  of  all  the  year 
October's  bright  blue  weather. 


THE  CORN-SONG 
JOHN  GBKENLEAF  WHITTIBB 

HEAP  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard ! 

High  heap  the  golden  corn ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn ! 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean  5 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine ; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow,  10 


THIRD  YEAR 

To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 
Our  harvest-fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of  flowers 

Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 
While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers  15 

Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 

The  robber  crows  away.  20 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June 

Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 
And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 

Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  Autumn's  moonlit  eves,  25 

Its  harvest-time  has  come, 
W7e  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  when  the  snows  about  us  drift, 

And  winter  winds  are  cold,  30 

Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 
And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 

Around  their  costly  board; 
Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk,  35 

By  homespun  beauty  poured ! 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 
Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 


THIRD  YEAR  5 

Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls ! ,  40 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn  ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root,  45 

Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 
Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 

The  wheat-field  to  the  fly  ; 

But  let  the  good  old  corn  adorn 

The  hills  our  fathers  trod  ;  50 

Still  let  us,  for  His  golden  corn, 

Send  up  our  thanks  to  God ! 

THE   FIRST   SNOW-FALL 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

THE  snow  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white. 

Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock  5 

Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl, 

And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch-deep  with  pearl. 

From  sheds  new  roofed  with  Carrara 

Came  Chanticleer's  muffled  crow,  10 

The  stiff  rails  softened  to  swan's-down, 
And  still  fluttered  down  the  snow. 


THIRD  YEAR 

I  stood  and  watched  by  the  window 

The  noiseless  work  of  the  sky, 
And  the  sudden  flurries  of  snow-birds,  15 

Like  brown  leaves  whirling  by. 

I  thought  of  a  mound  in  sweet  Auburn 

Where  a  little  headstone  stood ; 
How  the  flakes  were  folding  it  gently, 

As  did  robins  the  babes  in  the  wood.          20 

Up  spoke  our  own  little  Mabel, 

Saying,  "  Father,  who  makes  it  snow  ?  " 

And  I  told  of  the  good  All-father 
Who  cares  for  us  here  below. 

Again  I  looked  at  the  snow-fall,  25 

And  thought  of  the  leaden  sky 
That  arched  o'er  our  first  great  sorrow, 

When  that  mound  was  heaped  so  high. 

I  remembered  the  gradual  patience 

That  fell  from  that  cloud  like  snow,  30 

Flake  by  flake,  healing  and  hiding 
The  scar  that  renewed  our  woe. 

And  again  to  the  child  I  whispered, 

"  The  snow  that  husheth  all, 
Darling,  the  merciful  Father  35 

Alone  can  make  it  fall !  " 

Then,  with  eyes  that  saw  not,  I  kissed  her ; 

And  she,  kissing  back,  could  not  know 
That  my  kiss  was  given  to  her  sister, 

Folded  close  under  deepening  snow.  40 


THIRD  YEAR  7 

WINTER-TIME 
ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON 

LATE  lies  the  wintry  sun  abed 
A  frosty,  fiery  sleepy-head  ; 
Blinks  but  an  hour  or  two ;  and  then, 
A  blood-red  orange,  sets  again. 

Before  the  stars  have  left  the  skies,  5 

At  morning  in  the  dark  I  rise ; 
And  shivering  in  my  nakedness, 
By  the  cold  candle,  bathe  and  dress. 

Close  by  the  jolly  fire  I  sit 

To  warm  my  frozen  bones  a  bit ;  10 

Or  with  a  reindeer-sled,  explore 

The  colder  countries  round  the  door. 

When  to  go  out,  my  nurse  doth  wrap 

Me  in  my  comforter  and  cap, 

The  cold  wind  burns  my  face,  and  blows        15 

Its  frosty  pepper  up  my  nose. 

Black  are  my  steps  on  silver  sod ; 
Thick  blows  my  frosty  breath  abroad ; 
And  tree  and  house,  and  hill  and  lake, 
Are  frosted  like  a  wedding-cake.  20 

THE  CHILDREN'S   HOUR 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

BETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 


8  THIRD  YEAR 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me  5 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 

Descending  the  broad  hall  stair,  10 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence : 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes, 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together  15 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded 

They  enter  my  castle  wall !  20 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair ; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses,  25 

Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 
Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 

In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine ! 

27-28.  Near  Bingen  on  the  Rhine  is  a  little  square  Mouse 
Tower,  so  called  from  an  old  word  meaning  toll,  since  it  was 
used  as  a  toll-house  ;  but  there  is  an  old  tradition  that  a  certain 
Bishop  Hatto,  who  had  been  cruel  to  the  people,  was  attacked 
in  the  tower  by  a  great  army  of  rats  and  mice.  See  Southey's 
famous  poem,  Bishop  Hatto. 


THIRD  YEAR  9 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 

Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall,  30 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 

Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon  35 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away !  40 

MARCH 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

THE  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 

With  wind  and  cloud  and  changing  skies ; 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast, 

That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah,  passing  few  are  they  who  speak,  5 

Wild  stormy  month !  in  praise  of  thee  ; 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou  to  northern  lands  again 

The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring,  10 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train. 

And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day, 


10  THIRD  YEAR 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm,       15 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 

Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills 

In  joy  that  they  again  are  free, 
And,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 

Renew  their  journey  to  the  sea.  20 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 
Of  wintry  storms  the  sullen  threat; 

But  in  thy  sternest  frown  abides 
A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies,          25 
And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 

When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 
Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 


SWEET  AND  LOW 

ALFKED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

SWEET  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 

Over  the  rolling  waters  go,  5 

Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ;  10 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 


THIRD   YEAR  11 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon  ;  15 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 


THE  UGLY   DUCKLING 

ADAPTED  FROM  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

IT  was  glorious  out  in  the  country.  In  the  midst  of 
the  sunshine  there  lay  an  old  farm,  surrounded  by 
deep  canals,  and  from  the  wall  down  to  the  water 
grew  great  burdocks,  so  high  that  little  children  could 
stand  upright  under  the  loftiest  of  them.  Here  sat 
a  duck  upon  her  nest  waiting  for  her  young  ones  to 
hatch.  At  last  one  eggshell  after  another  burst  open, 
and  in  all  the  eggs  there  were  little  creatures  that 
stuck  out  their  heads. 

"Well,  how  goes  it  ?"  asked  an  old  duck  who  had 
come  to  pay  her  a  visit. 

"It  lasts  a  long  time  with  that  one  egg,"  said  the 
duck  who  sat  there.  "It  will  not  burst.  Now,  only 
look  at  the  others ;  are  they  not  the  prettiest  ducks 
one  could  possibly  see  ?  " 

"  Let  me  see  the  egg  that  will  not  burst,"  said  the 
old  visitor,  "  Believe  me,  it  is  a  turkey's  egg.  I  was 
once  cheated  in  that  way.  Yes,  that  is  a  turkey's  egg ! 
Let  it  lie  there,  and  you  teach  the  other  children  to 
swim." 

""  I  think  I  will  sit  on  it  a  little  longer,"  said  the 
duck.  "I've  sat  so  long  now  that  I  can  sit  a  few 
days  more." 

u  Just  as  you  please,"  said  the  old  duck ;  and  she 
went  away. 


12  THIRD  YEAR 

At  last  the  great  egg  burst.  "Peep!  peep!"  said 
the  little  one,  and  crept  forth.  It  was  very  large  and 
very  ugly.  The  duck  looked  at  it.  "It's  a  very  large 
duckling,"  said  she;  "none  of  the  others  look  like 
that;  can  it  really  be  a  turkey  chick?  Now  we  shall 
soon  find  out.  It  must  go  into  the  water,  even  if  I 
have  to  thrust  it  in  myself." 

The  next  day  the  weather  was  splendidly  bright, 
and  the  mother  duck  went  down  to  the  water  with  all 
her  little  ones.  Splash  !  she  jumped  into  the  water. 
"  Quack !  quack !  "  she  said,  and  then  one  duckling 
after  another  plunged  in.  The  ugly  gray  duckling 
swam  with  them. 

"  No,  it 's  not  a  turkey,"  said  she ;  "  look  how  well 
it  can  use  its  legs,  and  how  upright  it  holds  itself.  It 
is  my  own  child  !  On  the  whole  it 's  quite  pretty,  if  one 
looks  at  it  rightly." 

They  came  into  the  poultry-yard;  but  the  other 
ducks  round  about  looked  at  them,  and  said  quite 
boldly:  — 

"  Look  there !  now  we  're  to  have  these  hanging  on, 
as  if  there  were  not  enough  of  us  already !  And  fie  — 
fie  — !  how  that  duckling  yonder  looks ;  we  won't  stand 
that !  "  And  one  duck  flew  up  immediately,  and  bit  it 
in  the  neck. 

"  Let  it  alone,"  said  the  mother  ;  "  it  does  no  harm 
to  any  one." 

"Those  are  pretty  children  that  the  mother  has 
there,"  said  the  old  duck  with  the  rag  round  her  leg. 
"  They  're  all  pretty  but  that  one  ;  that  was  a  failure ; 
I  wish  he  could  be  hatched  over  again." 

"  That  cannot  be  done,"  said  the  mother.  "  He  is  not 
handsome,  but  he  has  a  really  good  disposition,  and 


THIRD  YEAR  13 

swims  even  better  than  the  others.  I  think  he  will 
grow  up  pretty,  and  become  smaller  in  time." 

And  now  they  were  at  home.  But  the  poor  ugly 
duckling  was  bitten  and  pushed  and  jeered,  as  much 
by  the  ducks  as  by  the  chickens. 

So  it  went  on  the  first  day  ;  and  afterward  it  became 
worse  and  worse.  The  poor  duckling  was  hunted  about 
by  every  one ;  even  his  brothers  and  sisters  were  un- 
kind. The  ducks  bit  him,  the  chickens  beat  him,  and 
the  girl  who  fed  the  poultry  kicked  at  him  with  her 
foot. 

Then  he  ran  and  flew  over  the  fence,  and  the  little 
birds  in  the  bushes  flew  up  in  fear.  "  That  is  because 
I  am  so  ugly  I  "  thought  the  duckling,  shutting  his  eyes, 
but  going  on. 

At  last  he  came  to  a  place  where  the  wild  geese 
lived.  There  he  lay  two  whole  days ;  then  came  two 
wild  geese.  "Listen,  comrade,"  said  one  of  them. 
"  You  're  so  ugly  that  I  like  you.  Will  you  go  with  us, 
and  fly  away  to  the  south?" 

Bang !  bang !  went  a  gun,  and  the  two  wild  geese  fell 
down  dead  in  the  swamp,  and  the  water  became  blood- 
red.  Bang !  it  sounded  again,  and  whole  flocks  of  wild 
geese  rose  up  from  the  reeds.  A  great  hunt  was  going 
on.  The  blue  smoke  rose  up  like  clouds  among  the 
dark  trees,  and  the  hunting  dogs  came  —  splash, 
splash  !  into  the  swamp,  and  the  poor  duckling  was 
frightened.  He  turned  his  head  to  put  it  under  his 
wing  ;-but  at  that  moment  a  frightful  great  dog  stood 
close  to  the  duckling.  His  tongue  hung  far  out  of  his 
mouth  and  his  eyes  gleamed  horrible  and  ugly.  He 
looked  at  the  poor  duckling  an  instant,  and  splash, 
splash !  —  on  he  went  without  hurting  him. 

"  Well,  let  me  be  thankful,"  said  the  duckling ;  "  I 
am  so  ugly  that  even  the  dog  will  not  bite  me."  And 


14  THIRD  YEAR 

now  he  lay  still ;  and  the  noise  of  the  shooting  did 
not  cease  till  late  in  the  day.  The  poor  little  thing 
waited  many  hours  before  he  dared  move.  Then  he 
ran  as  fast  as  he  could  over  fields  and  meadows. 

In  the  evening  he  reached  a  little  hut.  The  door 
was  broken,  so  he  crept  into  the  room.  Here  lived  an 
old  woman  with  her  cat  and  her  hen. 

In  the  morning  the  strange  duckling  was  at  once 
noticed,  and  the  cat  began  to  purr  and  the  hen  to 
cluck. 

"  What's  this?"  said  the  woman;  but  she  could  not 
see  well,  and  therefore  she  thought  the  duckling  was 
a  fat  duck  and  had  lost  its  way.  "This  is  a  rare 
prize,"  she  said  ;  "  now  I  shall  have  duck's  eggs."  So 
the  duckling  was  kept  for  three  weeks,  but  no  eggs 
came. 

"Can  you  lay  eggs?"  asked  the  hen. 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  hold  your  tongue." 

And  the  cat  said,  "  Can  you  put  up  your  back,  and 
purr,  and  give  out  sparks?" 

"No." 

"  Well,  then,  you  should  keep  still." 

So  the  duckling  sat  alone  in  the  corner,  and  was 
very  unhappy.  Then  the  fresh  air  and  the  sunshine 
streamed  in  ;  and  he  was  seized  with  such  a  strange 
longing  to  swim  on  the  water  that  he  went  away.  He 
swam  on  the  water,  and  dived,  but  he  was  slighted  by 
every  creature  because  of  his  ugliness. 

Now  came  the  autumn,  the  leaves  turned  yellow  and 
brown,  the  air  was  very  cold,  and  the  clouds  were 
heavy  with  snow.  One  evening  —  the  sun  was  just  set- 
ting in  his  beauty — there  came  a  whole  flock  of  great 
handsome  birds  out  of  the  bushes;  they  were  daz- 


THIRD  YEAR  15 

zingly  white,  with  long  flexible  necks;  they  were  swans. 
They  uttered  a  very  peculiar  cry,  spread  forth  their 
glorious  great  wings,  and  flew  away  from  that  cold 
region  to  warmer  lands,  to  fair  open  lakes.  They 
mounted  so  high,  so  high!  and  the  ugly  little  duck- 
ling felt  quite  strangely  as  it  watched  them.  He 
turned  round  and  round  in  the  water  like  a  wheel, 
stretched  out  his  neck  toward  them,  and  uttered  such 
a  strange  loud  cry  as  frightened  himself. 

Oh  !  he  could  not  forget  those  beautiful,  happy 
birds.  He  did  not  know  the  name  of  those  birds,  and 
knew  not  whither  they  were  flying ;  but  he  loved 
them  more  than  he  had  ever  loved  any  one.  He  did 
not  envy  them.  He  would  have  been  glad  if  only  the 
ducks  would  have  endured  his  company  —  the  poor 
ugly  creature  ! 

And  the  winter  grew  cold,  very  cold  !  It  would  be 
too  sad  to  tell  all  the  misery  and  care  which  the  duck- 
ling had  to  endure  in  the  hard  winter.  He  lay  out  on 
the  moor  among  the  reeds  when  the  sun  began  to  shine 
again,  and  the  larks  to  sing ;  it  was  a  beautiful  spring. 

Then  all  at  once  the  duckling  could  flap  his  wings ; 
they  beat  the  air  more  strongly  than  before,  and  bore 
him  strongly  away ;  and  before  he  well  knew  how  all 
this  had  happened,  he  found  himself  in  a  great  gar- 
den, where  the  elder  trees  smelled  sweet,  and  bent 
their  long  green  branches  down  to  the  canal  that 
wound  through  the  region.  Oh  !  here  it  was  so  beau- 
tiful, such  a  gladness  of  spring !  and  from  the  thicket 
came  three  glorious  white  swans ;  they  rustled  their 
wings,  and  swam  lightly  on  the  water.  The  duckling 
knew  the  splendid  creatures,  and  felt  oppressed  by  a 
peculiar  sadness. 

"  I  will  fly  away  to  them,  to  the  royal  birds !  and 


16  THIRD  YEAR 

they  will  kill  me,  because  I,  that  am  so  ugly,  dare  to 
approach  them.  But  it  is  of  no  consequence  !  Better  to 
be  killed  by  them  than  to  be  pursued  by  ducks,  and 
beaten  by  fowls,  and  pushed  about  by  the  girl  who 
takes  care  of  the  poultry -yard,  and  to  suffer  hunger  in 
winter !  "  And  it  flew  out  into  the  water,  and  swarn 
toward  the  beautiful  swans :  these  looked  at  him,  and 
came  sailing  down  upon  him  with  outspread  wings. 
"Kill  me!"  said  the  poor  creature,  and  bent  his  head 
down  upon  the  water,  expecting  nothing  but  death. 
But  what  was  this  that  he  saw  in  the  clear  water  ?  He 
beheld  his  own  image . —  and  lo !  it  was  no  longer  a 
clumsy  dark  gray  bird,  ugly  and  hateful  to  look  at, 
but  —  a  swan  ! 

It  matters  nothing  if  one  was  born  in  a  duck-yard, 
if  one  has  only  lain  in  a  swan's  egg. 

He  felt  quite  glad  at  all  the  need  and  misfortune 
he  had  suffered,  now  he  realized  his  happiness  in  all 
the  splendor  that  surrounded  him.  And  the  great 
swans  swam  round  him,  and  stroked  him  with  their 
beaks.  Into  the  garden  came  little  children,  who  threw 
bread  and  corn  into  the  water,  and  the  youngest  one 
cried,  "  There  is  a  new  one ! "  And  they  all  said, 
"  The  new  one  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all !  so  young 
and  handsome !  "  and  the  old  swans  bowed  their  heads 
before  him. 

Then  he  felt  quite  ashamed,  and  hid  his  head  under 
his  wing,  for  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  ;  he  was  so 
happy,  and  yet  not  at  all  proud.  He  thought  how  he 
had  been  persecuted  and  despised  ;  and  now  he  heard 
them  saying  that  he  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
birds.  Then  his  wings  rustled,  he  lifted  his  slender 
neck,  and  cried  rejoicingly  from  the  depths  of  his 
heart:  "I  never  dreamed  of  so  much  happiness  when 
I  was  still  the  Ugly  Duckling  !  " 


THIRD  YEAR  17 

THE   BROOK 
ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down,  5 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river,  10 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays ;  15 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow.  20 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


18  THIRD  YEAR 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out,  25 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me  as  I  travel  30 

With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 
Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go,  35 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers.  40 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars  45 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars, 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river,  50 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


FOURTH  YEAR 

THE   BAREFOOT  BOY 
JOHN  GREENLEAP  WHITTIBB 

BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 

Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 

With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 

And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 

With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still  5 

Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 

With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 

Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace ; 

From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 

I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy !  10 

Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 

Only  is  republican. 

Let  the  milliou-dollared  ride ! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy  15 

In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 

Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 

Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy ! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 

Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day,  20 

Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 

Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 

Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 

Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 


20  FOURTH  YEAR 

Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude  25 

Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood ; 

How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 

How  the  woodchtick  digs  his  cell. 

And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 

How  the  robin  feeds  her  young,  30 

How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung  ; 

Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 

Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 

Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 

Where  the  wood -grape's  clusters  shine;         35 

Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 

Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 

And  the  architectural  plans 

Of  gray  hornet  artisans  ! 

For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks,  40 

Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 

Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 

Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 

Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 

Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy !  45 

Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June 

Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 

When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 

Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 

I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees,  50 

Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 

For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 

Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ; 

For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 

Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone ;  55 

Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 

Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 


FOURTH  YEAR  21 

Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 

Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall ; 

Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond,  60 

Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 

Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 

Apples  of  Hesperides ! 

Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 

Larger  grew  my  riches  too ;  65 

All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 

Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 

Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy ! 

Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread, 

Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread ;  F3 

Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood^ 

On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude ! 

O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 

Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 

Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold,  75 

Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 

While  for  music  came  the  play 

Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra ; 

And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 

Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire.  80 

I  was  monarch :  pomp  and  joy 

Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 

Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can ! 

Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard,  85 

Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 

Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 

Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 

Every  evening  from  thy  feet 


22  FOURTH  YEAR 

Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat ;  90 

All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 

In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 

Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 

Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 

Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil,  95 

Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 

Happy  if  their  track  be  found 

Never  on  forbidden  ground ; 

Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 

Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin.  100 

Ah !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 

Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 


DUTCH   LULLABY1 
EUGENE  FIELD 

WYNKEN,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe,  — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  misty  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"  Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish  ?  "       £ 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"  We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring-fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea ; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we," 

Said  Wynken,  10 

Blynken, 

And  Nod. 

1  From  A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse.   Copyright,  1889,  by 
Eugene  Field.  Published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 


FOURTH   YEAR  23 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sung  a  song, 

As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe  ; 
And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long  15 

Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew ; 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring-fish 
That  lived  in  the  beautiful  sea. 
"  Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish, 

But  never  afeard  are  we !  "  20 

So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three, 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw  26 

For  the  fish  in  the  twinkling  foam, 
Then  down  from  the  sky  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home  ; 
?T  was  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be ;  30 

And  some  folk  thought  't  was  a  dream  they  'd  dreamed 

Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea ; 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three : 
Wynken, 

Blynken,  35 

And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed ;  40 

So  shut  your  eyes  while  Mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 

And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  on  the  misty  sea 


24  FOURTH   YEAR 

Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen  three,  —  45 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH ' 
HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands  ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms  5 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whatever  he  can,  10 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 
You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge,         15 

With  measured  beat  and  slow, 
Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 

When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

1  The  suggestion  of  this  poem  came  from  the  smithy  which  the  poet 
passed  daily,  and  which  stood  beneath  a  horse-chestnut  tree  not  far 
from  his  house  in  Cambridge.  The  tree,  against  the  protest  of  Mr. 
Longfellow  and  others,  was  removed  in  1876,  on  the  ground  that  it 
imperilled  drivers  of  heavy  loads  who  passed  under  it. 


FOURTH  YEAR  25 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door ;  20 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 
And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church,  25 

And  sits  among  his  boys  ; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice.  30 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes  35 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  —  rejoicing,  —  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ;  40 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 


23.  After  this  poem  had  been  printed  for  some  time,  Mr. 
Longfellow  was  '  disposed  to  change  the  word  "  catch "  to 
"  watch,"  but  the  original  form  had  grown  so  familiar  that  he 
decided  to  leave  it. 


26  FOURTH  YEAR 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life  45 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 


THE   SPARROWS 

CELIA  THAXTEB 

IN  the  far-off  land  of  Norway, 

Where  the  winter  lingers  late, 
And  long  for  the  singing-birds  and  flowers 

The  little  children  wait ; 

When  at  last  the  summer  ripens  5 

And  the  harvest  is  gathered  in, 
And  food  for  the  bleak,  drear  days  to  come 

The  toiling  people  win  ; 

Through  all  the  land  the  children 

In  the  golden  fields  remain  10 

Till  their  busy  little  hands  have  gleaned 

A  generous  sheaf  of  grain ; 

All  the  stalks  by  the  reapers  forgotten 

They  glean  to  the  very  least, 
To  save  till  the  cold  December,  15 

For  the  sparrows'  Christmas  feast. 

And  then  through  the  frost-locked  country 
There  happens  a  wonderful  thing : 

The  sparrows  flock  north,  south,  east,  west, 

For  the  children's  offering.  20 


FOURTH  YEAR  27 

Of  a  sudden,  the  day  before  Christmas, 

The  twittering  crowds  arrive, 
And  the  bitter,  wintry  air  at  once 

With  their  chirping  is  all  alive. 

They  perch  upon  roof  and  gable,  25 

On  porch  and  fence  and  tree, 
They  flutter  about  the  windows 

And  peer  in  curiously. 

And  meet  the  eyes  of  the  children, 

Who  eagerly  look  out  (    30 

With  cheeks  that  bloom  like  roses  red, 

And  greet  them  with  welcoming  shout. 

On  the  joyous  Christmas  morning, 

In  front  of  every  door 
A  tall  pole,  crowned  with  clustering  grain,  35 

Is  set  the  birds  before. 

And  which  are  the  happiest,  truly 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell ; 
The  sparrows  who  share  in  the  Christmas  cheer, 

Or  the  children  who  love  them  well !  40 

How  sweet  that  they  should  remember, 

With  faith  so  full  and  sure, 
That  the  children's  bounty  awaited  them 

The  whole  wide  country  o'er ! 

When  this  pretty  story  was  told  me  45 

By  one  who  had  helped  to  rear 
The  rustling  grain  for  the  merry  birds 

In  Norway,  many  a  year, 


28  FOURTH  YEAR 

I  thought  that  our  little  children 

Would  like  to  know  it  too,  50 

It  seems  to  me  so  beautiful, 

So  blessed  a  thing  to  do, 

To  make  God's  innocent  creatures  see 

In  every  child  a  friend, 
And  on  our  faithful  kindness  55 

So  fearlessly  depend. 


SELECTIONS   FROM   SNOW-BOUND 

i 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB 
THE   STORM 

UNWARMED  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As  zigzag  wavering  to  and  fro  5 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow : 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts.  10 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on : 

The  morning  broke  without  a  sun ; 

In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 

Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 

In  starry  flake  and  pellicle  15 

All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 

And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 

We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 

On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 


5  I 


a  w  I 

III 


FOURTH  YEAR  29 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent  20 

The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 

No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 

A  universe  of  sky  and  snow ! 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes ;  strange  domes  and  towers  25 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 

Or  garden-wall  or  belt  of  wood  ; 

A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road; 

The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat  .  30 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof ; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 

In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 

Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle.  35 

THE   KITCHEN   SCENE 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 

Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 

The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 

From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 

We  piled  with  care  our  nightly  stack  5 

Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back, — 

The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 

35.  The  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa,  in  Italy,  which  inclines  from 
the  perpendicular  a  little  more  than  six  feet  in  eighty,  is  a  cam- 
panile, or  bell-tower,  built  of  white  marble,  very  beautiful,  but 
so  famous  for  its  singular  deflection  from  perpendicularity  as 
to  be  known  almost  wholly  as  a  curiosity.  Opinions  differ  as  to 
the  leaning  being  the  result  of  accident  or  design,  but  the  better 
judgment  makes  it  an  effect  of  the  character  of  the  soil  on  which 
the  town  is  built.  The  Cathedral  to  which  it  belongs  has  suffered 
so  much  from  a  similar  cause  that  there  is  not  a  vertical  line  in  it. 


30  FOURTH  YEAR 

And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick ; 

The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 

And  filled  between  with  curious  art  10 

The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 

We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 

Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 

On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 

Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room  15 

Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom ; 

While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 

Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 

And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree, 

Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free.       20 

The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 

The  Turk's  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed ; 

While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 

The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 

Whispered  the  old  rhyme  :  "  Under  the  tree,     25 

When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 

There  the  witches  are  making  tea" 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 

Shone  at  its  full ;  the  hill-range  stood 

Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood,  30 

Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 

Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 

Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 

Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 

Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back.  35 

For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 

Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 

Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 

To  make  the  coldness  visible. 


FOURTH  YEAR  31 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without,  40 

We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 

Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 

In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 

While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 

The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat;  45 

And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 

Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 

The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 

The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed ; 

The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread  50 

Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 

The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 

A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 

And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 

Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet,  55 

The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 

The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row,  • 

And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood, 

With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 


PSALM  CXXI 

THE   BIBLE 

I  WILL  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from  whence 
cometh  my  help. 

My  help  cometh  from  the  Lord,  which  made  heaven 
and  earth. 

He  will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  be  moved :  he  that 
keepeth  thee  will  not  slumber. 

Behold,  he  that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither  slumber 
nor  sleep. 


32  FOURTH   YEAR 

The  Lord  is  thy  keeper :  the  Lord  is  thy  shade  upon 
thy  right  hand. 

The  sun  shall  not  smite  thee  by  day,  nor  the  moon 
by  night. 

The  Lord  shall  preserve  thee  from  all  evil :  he  shall 
preserve  thy  soul. 

The  Lord  shall  preserve  thy  going  out  and  thy 
coming  in,  from  this  time  forth,  and  even  for  evermore. 

OLD  IRONSIDES 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  1 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout,  5 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe,  10 

When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck  15 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave ;  20 


FOURTH  YEAR  33 

Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the.  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


I  REMEMBER,   I  REMEMBER 

THOMAS  HOOD 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born ; 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon,  5 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  roses,  red  and  white,  10 

The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups,  — 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday —  15 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

O 

To  swallows  on  the  wing;  20 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  I 


34  FOURTH  YEAR 

I  remember,  I  remember  25 

The  fir-trees  dark  and  high ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky. 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  't  is  little  joy  30 

To  know  I  'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING 
FELICIA  D.  HEMAKS 

I  COME,  I  come !  ye  have  called  me  long  — 

I  come  o'er  the  mountains  with  light  and  song ! 

Ye  may  trace  my  step  o'er  the  wakening  earth 

By  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet's  birth, 

By  the  primrose  stars  in  the  shadowy  grass,  5 

By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  I  pass. 

I  have  breathed  on  the  South,  and  the  chestnut  flowers 

By  thousands  have  burst  from  the  forest  bowers, 

And  the  ancient  graves  and  the  fallen  fanes 

Are  veiled  with  wreaths  on  Italian  plains ;  —  10 

But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom, 

To  speak  of  the  ruin  or  the  tomb ! 

I  have  looked  on  the  hills  of  the  stormy  North, 

And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth, 

The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea,  15 

And  the  reindeer  bounds  o'er  the  pastures  free, 

And  the  pine  has  a  fringe  of  softer  green, 

And  the  moss  looks  bright  where  my  foot  hath  been. 


FOURTH  YEAR  35 

I  have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a  glowing  sigh, 
And  called  out  each  voice  of  the  deep-blue  sky ;        20 
From  the  night-bird's  lay  through  the  starry  time, 
In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime, 
To  the  swan's  wild  note  by  the  Iceland  lakes, 
When  the  dark  fir  branch  into  verdure  breaks. 

From  the  streams  and  founts  I  have  loosed  the  chain ; 
They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  main,  26 

They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain  brows, 
They  are  flinging  spray  o'er  the  forest  boughs, 
They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves, 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves  !         30 

Come  forth,  O  ye  children  of  gladness !  come ! 

Where  the  violets  lie  may  be  now  your  home. 

Ye  of  the  rose  lip  and  dew-bright  eye, 

And  the  bounding  footstep,  to  meet  me  fly ! 

With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  joyous  lay,  35 

Come  forth  to  the  sunshine  —  I  may  not  stay. 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  careworn  men, 

The  waters  are  sparkling  in  grove  and  glen ! 

Away  from  the  chamber  and  sullen  hearth, 

The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth  !         40 

Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wildwood  strains, 

And  youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 

But  ye !  —  ye  are  changed  sinoe  ye  met  me  last ! 
There  is  something  bright  from  your  features  passed  ! 
There  is  that  come  over  your  brow  and  eye  45 

W7hich  speaks  of  a  world  where  the  flowers  must  die ! 
—  Ye  smile !  but  your  smile  hath  a  dimness  yet ; 
O,  what  have  you  looked  on  since  last  we  met  ? 


36  FOURTH  YEAR 

Ye  are  changed,  ye  are  changed! — and  I   see  not 

here 

All  whom  I  saw  in  the  vanished  year !  50 

There  were  graceful  heads,  with  their  ringlets  bright, 
Which  tossed  in  the  breeze  with  a  play  of  light ; 
There  were  eyes  in  whose  glistening  laughter  lay 
No  faint  remembrance  of  dull  decay! 

There  were  steps  that  flew  o'er  the  cowslip's  head,   55 

As  if  for  a  banquet  all  earth  were  spread ; 

There  were  voices  that  rang  through  the  sapphire  sky, 

And  had  not  a  sound  of  mortality ! 

Are  they  gone?  is  their  mirth  from  the  mountains 

passed  ? 
Ye  have  looked  on  death  since  ye  met  me  last !         60 

I  know  where  the  shadow  comes  o'er  you  now,  — 

Ye  have  strewn  the  dust  on  the  sunny  brow! 

Ye  have  given  the  lovely  to  Earth's  embrace,  — 

She  hath  taken  the  fairest  of  Beauty's  race, 

With  their  laughing  eyes  and  their  festal  crown :      65 

They  are  gone  from  amongst  you  in  silence  down  I 

They  are  gone  from  amongst  you,  the   young  and 

fair, 

Ye  have  lost  the  gleam  of  their  shining  hair ! 
But  I  know  of  a  land  where  there  falls  no  blight,  — 
I  shall  find  them  there,  with  their  eyes  of  light !  —  70 
Where  Death  midst  the  blooms  of   the   morn  may 

dwell, 
I  tarry  no  longer,  —  farewell,  farewell ! 

The  summer  is  coming,  on  soft  wings  borne,  — 
Ye  may  press  the  grape,  ye  may  bind  the  corn ! 


FOURTH  YEAR  37 

For  me,  I  depart  to  a  brighter  shore,  —  75 

Ye  are  marked  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more ; 
I  go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell, 
And  the  flowers  are  not  Death's.   Fare  ye  well,  fare- 
well! 


THE   LEAK  IN  THE  DIKE 

A   STORY   OF   HOLLAND 
PH(EBE  CARY 

THE  good  dame  looked  from  her  cottage 

At  the  close  of  the  pleasant  day, 
And  cheerily  called  to  her  little  son 

Outside  the  door  at  play : 
"  Come,  Peter,  come  !  I  want  you  to  go,  5 

While  there  is  light  to  see, 
To  the  hut  of  the  blind  old  man  who  lives 

Across  the  dike,  for  me  ; 
And  take  these  cakes  I  made  for  him  — 

They  are  hot  and  smoking  yet ;  10 

You  have  time  enough  to  go  and  come 

Before  the  sun  is  set." 
Then  the  good-wife  turned  to  her  labor 

Humming  a  simple  song, 
And  thought  of  her  husband,  working  hard         15 

At  the  sluices  all  day  long ; 
And  set  the  turf  a-blazing, 

And  brought  the  coarse  black  bread ; 
That  he  might  find  a  fire  at  night, 

And  find  the  table  spread.  20 

And  Peter  left  the  brother, 

With  whom  all  day  he  had  played, 


38  FOURTH  YEAR 

And  the  sister  who  had  watched  their  sports 

In  the  willow's  tender  shade ; 
And  told  them  they  'd  see  him  back  before          25 

They  saw  a  star  in  sight, 
Though  he  would  n't  be  afraid  to  go 

In  the  very  darkest  night ! 
For  he  was  a  brave,  bright  fellow, 

With  eye  and  conscience  clear ;  30 

He  could  do  whatever  a  boy  might  do, 

And  he  had  not  learned  to  fear. 
Why,  he  would  n't  have  robbed  a  bird's  nest, 

Nor  brought  a  stork  to  harm, 
Though  never  a  law  in  Holland  35 

Had  stood  to  stay  his  arm ! 

And  now,  with  his  face  all  glowing, 

And  eyes  as  bright  as  the  day 
With  the  thoughts  of  his  pleasant  errand, 

He  trudged  along  the  way  ;  40 

And  soon  his  joyous  prattle 

Made  glad  a  lonesome  place  — 
Alas !  if  only  the  blind  old  man 

Could  have  seen  that  happy  face ! 
Yet  he  somehow  caught  the  brightness  45 

Which  his  voice  and  presence  lent ; 
And  he  felt  the  sunshine  come  and  go 

As  Peter  came  and  went. 

And  now,  as  the  day  was  sinking, 

And  the  winds  began  to  rise,  50 

The  mother  looked  from  her  door  again, 

Shading  her  anxious  eyes  ; 
And  saw  the  shadows  deepen 

And  birds  to  their  homes  come  back, 


FOURTH  YEAR  39 

But  never  a  sign  of  Peter  55 

Along  the  level  track. 
But  she  said :  "  He  will  come  at  morning, 

So  I  need  not  fret  nor  grieve  — 
Though  it  is  n't  like  my  boy  at  all 

To  stay  without  my  leave."  60 

But  where  was  the  child  delaying  ? 

On  the  homeward  way  was  he, 
And  across  the  dike  while  the  sun  was  up 

An  hour  above  the  sea. 
He  was  stopping  now  to  gather  flowers,  65 

Now  listening  to  the  sound, 
As  the  angry  waters  dashed  themselves 

Against  their  narrow  bound. 

O 

"  Ah  !  well  for  us,"  said  Peter, 

"  That  the  gates  are  good  and  strong,  70 

And  my  father  tends  them  carefully, 

Or  they  would  not  hold  you  long ! 
You  're  a  wicked  sea,"  said  Peter  ; 

"  I  know  why  you  fret  and  chafe  ; 
You  would  like  to  spoil  our  lands  and  homes ;     75 

But  our  sluices  keep  you  safe !  " 

But  hark !  Through  the  noise  of  waters 

Comes  a  low,  clear,  trickling  sound  ; 
And  the  child's  face  pales  with  terror, 

And  his  blossoms  drop  to  the  ground.  80 

He  is  up  the  bank  in  a  moment, 

And,  stealing  through  the  sand, 
He  sees  a  stream  not  yet  so  large 

As  his  slender,  childish  hand. 
'  T  is  a  leak  in  the  dike  !  He  is  but  a  boy,  85 

Unused  to  fearful  scenes ; 


40  FOURTH  YEAR 

But,  as  young  as  he  is,  he  has  learned  to  know 

The  dreadful  things  that  means. 
A  leak  in  the  dike  !  The  stoutest  heart 

Grows  faint  that  cry  to  hear,  90 

And  the  bravest  man  in  all  the  land 

Turns  white  with  mortal  fear. 
For  he  knows  the  smallest  leak  may  grow 

To  a  flood  in  a  single  night ; 
And  he  knows  the  strength  of  the  cruel  sea         95 

When  loosed  in  its  angry  might. 

And  the  boy !   He  has  seen  the  danger, 

And,  shouting  a  wild  alarm, 
He  forces  back  the  weight  of  the  sea 

With  the  strength  of  his  single  arm !  100 

He  listens  for  the  joyful  sound 

Of  a  footstep  passing  nigh  ; 
And  lays  his  ear  to  the  ground,  to  catch 

The  answer  to  his  cry. 
And  he  hears  the  rough  winds  blowing,  105 

And  the  waters  rise  and  fall, 
But  never  an  answer  comes  to  him, 

Save  the  echo  of  his  call. 
He  sees  no  hope,  no  succor, 

His  feeble  voice  is  lost ;  110 

Yet  what  shall  he  do  but  watch  and  wait, 

Though  he  perish  at  his  post ! 

So  faintly  calling  and  crying 

Till  the  sun  is  under  the  sea ; 
Crying  and  moaning  till  the  stars  115 

Come  out  for  company ; 
PC  thinks  of  his  brother  and  sister, 

Asleep  in  their  safe  warm  bed  ; 


FOURTH  YEAR  41 

He  thinks  of  his  father  and  mother, 

Of  himself  as  dying  —  and  dead  ;  120 

And  of  how,  when  the  night  is  over, 

They  must  come  and  find  him  at  last : 
But  he  never  thinks  he  can  leave  the  place 

Where  duty  holds  him  fast. 

The  good  dame  in  the  cottage  125 

Is  up  and  astir  with  the  light, 
For  the  thought  of  her  little  Peter 

Has  been  with  her  all  night. 
And  now  she  watches  the  pathway, 

As  yester  eve  she  had  done ;  130 

But  what  does  she  see  so  strange  and  black 

Against  the  rising  sun  ? 
Her  neighbors  are  bearing  between  them 

Something  straight  to  her  door ; 
Her  child  is  coming  home,  but  not  135 

As  he  ever  came  before  ! 

"  He  is  dead  !  "  she  cries  ;  "  my  darling !  " 

And  the  startled  father  hears, 
And  comes  and  looks  the  way  she  looks, 

And  fears  the  thing  she  fears :  140 

Till  a  glad  shout  from  the  bearers 

Thrills  the  stricken  man  and  wife  — 
"  Give  thanks,  for  your  son  has  saved  our  land, 

And  God  has  saved  his  life !  " 
So,  there  in  the  morning  sunshine  145 

They  knelt  about  the  boy ; 
And  every  head  was  bared  and  bent 

In  tearful,  reverent  joy. 

'T  is  many  a  year  since  then ;  but  still, 

When  the  sea  roars  like  a  flood,  150 


42  FOURTH  YEAR 

Their  boys  are  taught  what  a  boy  can  do 
Who  is  brave  and  true  and  good. 

For  every  man  in  that  country 
Takes  his  son  by  the  hand, 

And  tells  him  of  little  Peter  155 

Whose  courage  saved  the  land. 

They  have  many  a  valiant  hero, 

Remembered  through  the  years  : 
But  never  one  whose  name  so  oft 

Is  named  with  loving  tears.  160 

And  his  deed  shall  be  sung  by  the  cradle, 

And  told  to  the  child  on  the  knee, 
So  long  as  the  dikes  of  Holland 

Divide  the  land  from  the  sea ! 


FIFTH   YEAR 

BARBARA   FRIETCHIE  l 
JOHN  GREBNLEAF  WHITTIEB 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Kound  about  them  orchards  sweep,  5 

Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 

When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain-wall ;     10 

1  "  This  poem,"  says  Mr.  Whittier,  "  was  written  in  strict  conformity 
to  the  account  of  the  incident  as  I  had  it  from  respectable  and  trust- 
worthy sources.  It  has  since  been  the  subject  of  a  good  deal  of  con- 
flicting testimony,  and  the  story  was  probably  incorrect  in  some  of 
its  details.  It  is  admitted  by  all  that  Barbara  Frietchie  was  no  myth, 
but  a  worthy  and  highly  esteemed  gentlewoman,  intensely  loyal  and  a 
hater  of  the  Slavery  Rebellion,  holding  her  Union  flag  sacred  and 
keeping  it  with  her  Bible ;  that  when  the  Confederates  halted  before 
her  house,  and  entered  her  dooryard,  she  denounced  them  in  vigorous 
language,  shook  her  cane  in  their  faces,  and  drove  them  out :  and 
when  General  Burnside's  troops  followed  close  upon  Jackson's,  she 
waved  her  flag  and  cheered  them.  It  is  stated  that  May  Quantrell,  a 
brave  and  loyal  lady  in  another  part  of  the  city,  did  wave  her  flag  in 
sight  of  the  Confederates.  It  is  possible  that  there  has  been  a  blend- 
ing of  the  two  incidents." 


44  FIFTH  YEAR 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun  15 

Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down ;      20 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right  25 

He  glanced ;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"Halt!  "  —  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast. 
"  Fire !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash ; 

It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash.  30 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 


FIFTH  YEAR  45 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head,  35 

But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 

To  life  at  .that  woman's  deed  and  word ;  40 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog !   March  on  !  "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet ; 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost  45 

Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 

Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night.  50 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave,  55 

Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave  ! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law;' 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 

On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town !  60 


46  FIFTH   YEAR 

LEAD,  KINDLY  LIGHT 

JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN 

LEAD,  kindly  Light,  amid  th'  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ; 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home, 

Lead  Thou  me  on. 

Keep  Thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see  5 

The  distant  scene ;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on ; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path ;  but  now 

Lead  Thou  me  on.  10 

I  loved  the  garish  day ;  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will ;  remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  Thy  power  has  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till        15 

The  night  is  gone, 

And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile, 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 


THE  LANDING   OF  THE   PILGRIM   FATHERS 
IN  NEW   ENGLAND 

FELICIA  D.  HEMANS 

THE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  stern  and  rockbound  coast, 
And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 

Their  giant  branches  tossed. 


FIFTH   YEAR  47 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark  5 

The  hills  and  water  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came  ;  10 

Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame. 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear ;  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom        15 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea : 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free !  20 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam : 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared,  — 

This  was  their  welcome  home ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair  25 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band  :  — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ;  30 

There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 


48  FIFTH   YEAR 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ?  35 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod : 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found, — 

Freedom  to  worship  God.  40 

LITTLE  GOTTLIEB 

A   CHRISTMAS   STORY 

PHCEBE  GARY 
ACROSS  the  German  Ocean, 

In  a  country  far  from  our  own, 
Once,  a  poor  little  boy,  named  Gottlieb, 
Lived  with  his  mother  alone. 

They  dwelt  in  the  part  of  a  village  5 

Where  the  houses  were  poor  and  small, 

But  the  home  of  little  Gottlieb 
Was  the  poorest  one  of  all. 

He  was  not  large  enough  to  work, 

And  his  mother  could  do  no  more  10 

(Though  she  scarcely  laid  her  knitting  down) 

Than  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door. 

She  had  to  take  their  threadbare  clothes, 

And  turn,  and  patch,  and  darn  ; 
For  never  any  woman  yet  15 

Grew  rich  by  knitting  yarn. 

And  oft  at  night,  beside  her  chair, 
Would  Gottlieb  sit,  and  plan 


FIFTH   YEAR  49 

The  wonderful  things  he  would  do  for  her, 

When  he  grew  to  be  a  man.  20 

One  night  she  sat  and  knitted, 

And  Gottlieb  sat  and  dreamed, 
When  a  happy  fancy  all  at  once 

Upon  his  vision  beamed. 

'T  was  only  a  week  till  Christmas,  25 

And  Gottlieb  knew  that  then 
The  Christ-child,  who  was  born  that  day, 

Sent  down  good  gifts  to  men. 

But  he  said,  "  He  will  never  find  us, 

Our  home  is  so  mean  and  small,  30 

And  we,  who  have  most  need  of  them, 

Will  get  no  gifts  at  all." 

When  all  at  once  a  happy  light 

Came  into  his  eyes  so  blue, 
And  lighted  up  his  face  with  smiles,  35 

As  he  thought  what  he  could  do. 

Next  day  when  the  postman's  letters 

Came  from  all  over  the  land  ; 
Came  one  for  the  Christ-child,  written 

In  a  child's  poor  trembling  hand.  40 

You  may  think  he  was  sorely  puzzled 

What  in  the  world  to  do ; 
So  he  went  to  the  Burgomaster, 

As  the  wisest  man  he  knew. 

And  when  they  opened  the  letter,  45 

They  stood  almost  dismayed 


50  FIFTH   YEAR 

That  such  a  little  child  should  dare 
To  ask  the  Lord  for  aid. 

Then  the  Burgomaster  stammered, 

And  scarce  knew  what  to  speak,  50 

And  hastily  he  brushed  aside 

A  drop,  like  a  tear,  from  his  cheek. 

Then  up  he  spoke  right  gruffly, 

And  he  turned  himself  about : 

"  This  must  be  a  very  foolish  boy,  55 

And  a  small  one,  too,  no  doubt.'* 

But  when  six  rosy  children 

That  night  about  him  pressed, 
Poor,  trusting  little  Gottlieb 

Stood  near  him,  with  the  rest.  60 

And  he  heard  his  simple,  touching  prayer, 

Through  all  their  noisy  play  ; 
Though  he  tried  his  very  best  to  put 

The  thought  of  him  away. 

A  wise  and  learned  man  was  he,  65 

Men  called  him  good  and  just ; 
But  his  wisdom  seemed  like  foolishness, 

By  that  weak  child's  simple  trust. 

Now  when  the  morn  of  the  Christmas  came, 

And  the  long,  long  week  was  done,  70 

Poor  Gottlieb,  who  scarce  could  sleep, 
Rose  up  before  the  sun, 

And  hastened  to  his  mother, 

But  he  scarce  might  speak  for  fear, 


FIFTH   YEAR  51 

When  he  saw  her  wondering  look,  and  saw          75 
The  Burgomaster  near. 

He  was  n't  afraid  of  the  Holy  Babe, 

Nor  his  mother,  meek  and  mild ; 
But  he  felt  as  if  so  great  a  man 

Had  never  been  a  child.  80 

Amazed  the  poor  child  looked,  to  find 

The  hearth  was  piled  with  wood, 
And  the  table,  never  full  before, 

Was  heaped  with  dainty  food. 

Then  half  to  hide  from  himself  the  truth  85 

The  Burgomaster  said, 
While  the  mother  blessed  him  on  her  knees, 

And  Gottlieb  shook  for  dread, 

"  Nay,  give  no  thanks,  my  good  dame, 

To  such  as  me  for  aid,  90 

Be  grateful  to  your  little  son, 

And  the  Lord  to  whom  he  prayed !  " 

Then  turning  round  to  Gottlieb, 

"  Your  written  prayer,  you  see, 
Came  not  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  95 

It  only  came  to  me ! 

"  'T  was  but  a  foolish  thing  you  did, 

As  you  must  understand ; 
For  though  the  gifts  are  yours,  you  know, 

You  have  them  from  my  hand."  100 

Then  Gottlieb  answered  fearlessly, 
Where  he  humbly  stood  apart, 


52  FIFTH   YEAR 

"  But  the  Christ-child  sent  them  all  the  same, 
He  put  the  thought  in  your  heart !  " 


AMERICA 

SAMUEL  FRANCIS  SMITH 

MY  country,  't  is  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing  ; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrim's  pride,  5 

From  every  mountain-side 

Let  freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free,  — 

Thy  name  I  love ;  10 

I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills ; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze,  15 

And  ring  from  all  the  trees, 

Sweet  freedom's  song ; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake, 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake, 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break,  —  20 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  liberty, 
To  Thee  I  sing ; 


FIFTH  YEAR  53 

Long  may  our  land  be  bright  25 

With  freedom's  holy  light ; 
Protect  us  by  thy  might, 
Great  God  our  King. 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN1 
WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

OH,  slow  to  smite  and  swift  to  spare, 

Gentle  and  merciful  and  just ! 
Who,  in  the  fear  of  God,  didst  bear 

The  sword  of  power,  a  nation's  trust ! 

In  sorrow  by  thy  bier  we  stand,  5 

Amid  the  awe  that  hushes  all, 
And  speak  the  anguish  of  a  land 

That  shook  with  horror  at  thy  fall. 

Thy  task  is  done  ;  the  bond  are  free  : 

We  bear  thee  to  an  honored  grave,  10 

Whose  proudest  monument  shall  be 
The  broken  fetters  of  the  slave. 

Pure  was  thy  life  ;  its  bloody  close 

Hath  placed  thee  with  the  sons  of  light, 

Among  the  noble  host  of  those  15 

Who  perished  in  the  cause  of  Right. 

1  Written  by  request,  when  the  funeral  procession  of  the  martyred 
President  passed  through  the  streets  of  New  York. 


54  FIFTH  YEAR 

THE   STAR-SPANGLED   BANNER 
FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY 

O  SAY,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last 

gleaming  — 
Whose   broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the 

clouds  of  the  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts   we  watched  were  so  gallantly 

streaming ! 

And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air,  5 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still 

there ; 

O !  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  that  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 

Where   the   foe's   haughty  host   in   dread   silence 

reposes,  10 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream  ; 
'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner!  O  long  may  it  wave  15 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 
That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 

A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 
Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps' 
pollution.  20 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave ; 


FIFTH  YEAR  55 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

O !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand  25 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desola- 
tion. 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heav'n-rescued 

land 
Praise  the  power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us 

a  nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto  —  "In  God  is  our  trust :  "  30 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 


PAUL  REVERE'S   RIDE1 
HENRY  WADSWOBTH  LONGFELLOW 

LISTEN,  my  children,  and  you  shall  hear 

Of  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere, 

On  the  eighteenth  of  April,  in  Seventy-five ; 

Hardly  a  man  is  now  alive 

Who  remembers  that  famous  day  and  year.         5 

He  said  to  his  friend,  "  If  the  British  march 
By  land  or  sea  from  the  town  to-night, 
Hang  a  lantern  aloft  in  the  belfry  arch 

1  Mr.  Longfellow  imagined  a  party  of  friends  met  at  a  country  inn, 
and  telling  tales  before  the  fire.  The  first  of  these  Tales  of  a  Way- 
side Inn  was  by  the  landlord,  and  is  this  story  of  Paul  Revere.  Revere 
was  an  American  patriot,  a  silversmith  and  engraver  by  trade,  whose 
tea-pots  and  cream  jugs  and  tankards  may  be  found  in  old  Boston 
families.  He  was  a  spirited  man,  and  in  the  secrets  of  the  Boston 
patriots. 


56  FIFTH  YEAR 

Of  the  North  Church  tower  as  a  signal  light,  — 
One,  if  by  land,  and  two,  if  by  sea ;  10 

And  I  on  the  opposite  shore  will  be, 
Ready  to  ride  and  spread  the  alarm 
Through  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm, 
For  the  country  folk  to  be  up  and  to  arm." 

Then  he  said  "  Good  night !  "  and  with  muffled  oar  15 

Silently  rowed  to  the  Charlestown  shore, 

Just  as  the  moon  rose  over  the  bay, 

Where  swinging  wide  at  her  moorings  lay 

The  Somerset,  British  man-of-war ; 

A  phantom  ship,  with  each  mast  and  spar  20 

Across  the  moon  like  a  prison  bar, 

And  a  huge  black  hulk,  that  was  magnified 

By  its  own  reflection  in  the  tide. 

Meanwhile  his  friend,  through  alley  and  street, 
Wanders  and  watches  with  eager  ears,  25 

Till  in  the  silence  around  him  he  hears 
The  muster  of  men  at  the  barrack  door, 
The  sound  of  arms,  and  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  measured  tread  of  the  grenadiers, 
Marching  down  to  their  boats  on  the  shore.  30 

9.  There  has  been  some  discussion  as  to  the  church  tower  from 
which  the  lanterns  were  hung,  some  claiming  that  the  church  was 
the  old  North  Meeting-house  in  North  Square,  pulled  down 
afterward  for  fuel,  during  the  siege  of  Boston  ;  but  the  evidence 
points  more  clearly  to  Christ  Church,  still  standing,  and  often 
spoken  of  as  the  North  Church.  The  poet  has  departed  some- 
what from  the  actual  historic  facts,  since  Revere  did  not  watch 
for  the  lights,  nor  did  he  reach  Concord.  In  1894,  when  April 
19  was  made  a  holiday  in  Massachusetts,  under  the  name  of 
Patriots'  Day,  there  was  an  attempt  at  acting  out  the  famous 
story  of  the  ride. 


FIFTH  YEAR  57 

Then  he  climbed  the  tower  of  the  Old  North  Church, 

By  the  wooden  stairs,  with  stealthy  tread, 

To  the  belfry-chamber  overhead, 

And  startled  the  pigeons  from  their  perch 

On  the  sombre  rafters  that  round  him  made  35 

Masses  and  moving  shapes  of  shade,  — 

By  the  trembling  ladder,  steep  and  tall, 

To  the  highest  window  in  the  wall, 

Where  he  paused  to  listen  and  look  down 

A  moment  on  the  roofs  of  the  town,  40 

And  the  moonlight  flowing  over  all. 

Beneath,  in  the  churchyard,  lay  the  dead, 

In  their  night  encampment  on  the  hill, 

Wrapped  in  silence  so  deep  and  still 

That  he  could  hear,  like  a  sentinel's  tread,  45 

The  watchful  night-wind,  as  it  went 

Creeping  along  from  tent  to  tent, 

And  seeming  to  whisper,  "  All  is  well !  " 

A  moment  only  he  feels  the  spell 

Of  the  place  and  the  hour,  and  the  secret  dread        50 

Of  the  lonely  belfry  and  the  dead  ; 

For  suddenly  all  his  thoughts  are  bent 

On  a  shadowy  something  far  away, 

Where  the  river  widens  to  meet  the  bay,  — 

A  line  of  black  that  bends  and  floats  55 

On  the  rising  tide,  like  a  bridge  of  boats. 

Meanwhile,  impatient  to  mount  and  ride, 

Booted  and  spurred,  with  a  heavy  stride 

On  the  opposite  shore  walked  Paul  Revere. 

Now  he  patted  his  horse's  side,  60 

Now  gazed  at  the  landscape  far  and  near, 

Then,  impetuous,  stamped  the  earth, 


£8  FIFTH  YEAR 

And  turned  and  tightened  his  saddle-girth  ; 

But  mostly  he  watched  with  eager  search 

The  belfry -tower  of  the  Old  North  Church,  65 

As  it  rose  above  the  graves  on  the  hill, 

Lonely  and  spectral  and  sombre  and  still. 

And  lo !  as  he  looks,  on  the  belfry's  height 

A  glimmer,  and  then  a  gleam  of  light ! 

He  springs  to  the  saddle,  the  bridle  he  turns,  70 

But  lingers  and  gazes,  till  full  on  his  sight 

A  second  lamp  in  the  belfry  burns ! 

A  hurry  of  hoofs  in  a  village  street, 

A  shape  in  the  moonlight,  a  bulk  in  the  dark, 

And  beneath,  from  the  pebbles,  in  passing,  a  spark  75 

Struck  out  by  a  steed  flying  fearless  and  fleet : 

That  was  all !     And  yet,  through  the  gloom  and  the 

light, 

The  fate  of  a  nation  was  riding  that  night ; 
And  the  spark  struck  out  by  that  steed  in  his  flight, 
Kindled  the  land  into  flame  with  its  heat.  80 

He  has  left  the  village  and  mounted  the  steep, 

And  beneath  him,  tranquil  and  broad  and  deep, 

Is  the  Mystic,  meeting  the  ocean  tides ; 

And  under  the  alders  that  skirt  its  edge, 

Now  soft  on  the  sand,  now  loud  on  the  ledge,  85 

Is  heard  the  tramp  of  his  steed  as  he  rides. 

It  was  twelve  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  crossed  the  bridge  into  Medford  town. 

He  heard  ^the  crowing  of  the  cock, 

And  the  barking  of  the  farmer's  dog,  90 

And  felt  the  damp  of  the  river  fog, 

That  rises  after  the  sun  goes  down. 


FIFTH  YEAR  69 

It  was  one  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  galloped  into  Lexington. 

He  saw  the  gilded  weathercock  95 

Swim  in  the  moonlight  as  he  passed, 

And  the  meeting-house  windows,  blank  and  bare, 

Gaze  at  him  with  a  spectral  glare, 

As  if  they  already  stood  aghast 

At  the  bloody  work  they  would  look  upon.  100 

It  was  two  by  the  village  clock, 

When  he  came  to  the  bridge  in  Concord  town. 

He  heard  the  bleating  of  the  flock, 

And  the  twitter  of  birds  among  the  trees, 

And  felt  the  breath  of  the  morning  breeze  105 

Blowing  over  the  meadows  brown. 

And  one  was  safe  and  asleep  in  his  bed 

Who  at  the  bridge  would  be  first  to  fall, 

Who  that  day  would  be  lying  dead, 

Pierced  by  a  British  musket-ball.  110 

You  know  the  rest.    In  the  books  you  have  read, 
How  the  British  Regulars  fired  and  fled,  — 
How  the  farmers  gave  them  ball  for  ball, 
From  behind  each  fence  and  farm-yard  wall, 
Chasing  the  red-coats  down  the  lane,  115 

Then  crossing  the  fields  to  emerge  again 
Under  the  trees  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
And  only  pausing  to  fire  and  load. 

So  through  the  night  rode  Paul  Revere ; 

And  so  through  the  night  went  his  cry  of  alarm  120 

To  every  Middlesex  village  and  farm,  — 

A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear, 


60  FIFTH  YEAR 

A  voice  in  the  darkness,  a  knock  at  the  door, 

And  a  word  that  shall  echo  forevermore ! 

For,  borne  on  the  night-wind  of  the  Past,         125 

Through  all  our  history,  to  the  last, 

In  the  hour  of  darkness  and  peril  and  need, 

The  people  will  waken  and  listen  to  hear 

The  hurrying  hoof -beats  of  that  steed, 

And  the  midnight  message  of  Paul  Revere.      130 


THE   BLUE   AND  THE   GRAY 

FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH 

BY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  had  fled, 

Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 

Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead  : 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew,  5 

Waiting  the  judgment-day ; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray, 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat,  10 

All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 

In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day ;  . 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue,  15 

Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 
The  desolate  mourners  go, 


FIFTH  YEAR  61 

Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe :  20 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor,  25 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day  ;  30 

'Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue, 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 

On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 

With  an  equal  murmur  falleth  35 

The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain  : 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue, 

Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray.  40 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 

The  generous  deed  was  done, 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading 
No  braver  battle  was  won : 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew,  45 

Waiting  the  judgment-day ; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 


62  FIFTH  YEAR 

No  more  shall  the  war  cry  sever, 

Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red ;  50 

They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead ! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day, 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue,  55 

Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

WOODMAN,  SPARE  THAT  TREE! 
GEORGE  POPE  MORRIS 

WOODMAN,  spare  that  tree  ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough  ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I  '11  protect  it  now. 
'T  was  my  forefather's  hand  5 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown  10 

Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea  — 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down  ? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak  15 

Now  towering  to  the  skies ! 

When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade ; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here,  too,  my  sisters  played.  20 


FIFTH   YEAR  63 

My  mother  kissed  me  here ; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand  — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand. 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling,  25 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend ! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree !  the  storm  still  brave ! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot ;  30 

While  I  've  a  hand  to  save, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 


SIXTH   YEAR 

GLUCK'S  VISITOR  (FIRST  VISIT) 
ADAPTED  FROM  JOHN  RUSKIN 

GLUCK  was  so  perfectly  paralyzed  by  the  singular 
appearance  of  his  visitor  that  he  remained  fixed  with- 
out uttering  a  word,  until  the  old  gentleman,  having 
performed  another  and  more  energetic  concerto  on  the 
knocker,  turned  round  to  look  after  his  fly-away  cloak. 
In  so  doing  he  caught  sight  of  Gluck's  little  yellow 
head  jammed  in  the  window,  with  its  mouth  and  eyes 
very  wide  open  indeed. 

"  Hollo !  "  said  the  little  gentleman,  "  that 's  not  the 
way  to  answer  the  door ;  I  'm  wet,  let  me  in." 

To  do  the  little  gentleman  justice,  he  was  wet.  His 
feather  hung  down,  dripping  like  an  unbrella;  and 
from  the  ends  of  his  moustaches  the  water  was  run- 
ning into  his  waistcoat  pockets,  and  out  again  like  a 
mill  stream. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  Gluck,  "  I  'm  very  sorry, 
but  I  really  can't." 

"  Can't  what  ?  "  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  I  can't  let  you  in,  sir,  —  I  can't  indeed  ;  my  bro- 
thers would  beat  me  to  death,  sir,  if  I  thought  of  such 
a  thing.  What  do  you  want,  sir  ?  " 

"Want?"  said  the  old  gentleman,  petulantly.  "I 
want  fire  and  shelter ;  and  there 's  your  great  fire 
there,  blazing,  crackling,  and  dancing  on  the  walls, 
with  nobody  to  feel  it.  Let  me  in,  I  say ;  I  only  want 
to  warm  myself." 


SIXTH  YEAR  65 

Gluck  had  had  his  head  so  long  out  of  the  window 
by  this  time  that  he  began  to  feel  it  was  really  un- 
pleasantly cold,  and  when  he  turned  and  saw  the  beau- 
tiful fire  rustling  and  roaring,  and  throwing  long 
bright  tongues  up  the  chimney,  as  if  it  were  licking 
its  chops  at  the  savory  smell  of  the  leg  of  mutton,  his 
heart  melted  within  him  that  it  should  be  burning 
away  for  nothing.  "  He  does  look  very  wet,"  said  little 
Gluck  ;  "  I  '11  just  let  him  in  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 
.Bound  he  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it ;  and  as  the 
little  gentleman  walked  in  there  came  a  gust  of  wind 
through  the  house  that  made  the  old  chimneys  totter. 

"That's  a  good  boy,"  said  the  little  gentleman. 
"  Never  mind  your  brothers.  I  '11  talk  to  them." 

"  Pray,  sir,  don't  do  any  such  thing,"  said  Gluck. 
"  I  can't  let  you  stay  till  they  come ;  they  'd  be  the 
death  of  me." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "I'm  very  sorry 
to  hear  that.  How  long  may  I  stay?" 

"  Only  till  the  mutton 's  done,  sir,"  replied  Gluck, 
"  and  it 's  very  brown." 

Then  the  old  gentleman  walked  into  the  kitchen, 
and  sat  himself  down  on  the  hob,  with  the  top  of  his 
cap  accommodated  up  the  chimney,  for  it  was  a  great 
deal  too  high  for  the  roof. 

"  You  '11  soon  dry  there,  sir,"  said  Gluck,  and  sat 
down  again  to  turn  the  mutton.  But  the  old  gentle- 
man did  not  dry  there,  but  went  on  drip,  drip,  dripping 
among  the  cinders,  and  the  fire  fizzed,  and  sputtered, 
and  began  to  look  very  black  and  uncomfortable. 
Never  was  such  a  cloak ;  every  fold  in  it  ran  like  a 
gutter. 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  Gluck  at  length,  after 
watching  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  water  spread- 


66  SIXTH  YEAR 

ing  in  long,  quicksilver-like  streams  over  the  floor ; 
"may  n't  I  take  your  cloak?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Your  cap,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  am  all  right,  thank  you,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, rather  gruffly. 

"  But,  —  sir,  —  I  'm  very  sorry,"  said  Gluck,  hesitat- 
ingly ;  "  but  —  really,  sir,  —  you  're  —  putting  the  fire 
out." 

"  It  '11  take  longer  to  do  the  mutton,  then,"  replied 
his  visitor,  dryly. 

Gluck  was  much  puzzled  by  the  behavior  of  his 
guest ;  it  was  such  a  strange  mixture  of  coolness  and 
humility.  He  turned  away  at  the  string  meditatively 
for  another  five  minutes. 

"  That  mutton  looks  very  nice,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man at  length.  "  Can't  you  give  me  a  little  bit  ?  " 

"  Impossible,  sir,"  said  Gluck. 

"  I  'm  very  hungry,"  continued  the  old  gentleman  ; 
"  I  've  had  nothing  to  eat  yesterday  nor  to-day.  They 
surely  could  n't  miss  a  bit  from  the  knuckle  !  " 

He  spoke  in  so  very  melancholy  a  tone  that  it  quite 
melted  Gluck's  heart.  "  They  promised  me  one  slice 
to-day,  sir,"  said  he  ;  "  I  can  give  you  that,  but  not  a 
bit  more." 

"  That 's  a  good  boy,"  said  the  old  gentleman  again. 

Then  Gluck  warmed  a  plate,  and  sharpened  a  knife, 
"  I  don't  care  if  I  do  get  beaten  for  it,"  thought  he. 
Just  as  he  had  cut  a  large  slice  out  of  the  mutton, 
there  came  a  tremendous  rap  at  the  door.  The  old 
gentleman  jumped  off  the  hob,  as  if  it  had  suddenly 
become  inconveniently  warm.  Gluck  fitted  the  slice 
into  the  mutton  again,  with  desperate  efforts  at  exacti- 
tude, and  ran  to  open  the  door. 


SIXTH  YEAR  67 

44  What  did  you  keep  us  waiting  in  the  rain  for?" 
said  Schwartz,  as  he  walked  in,  throwing  his  umbrella 
in  Gluck's  face. 

44  Ay  !  what  for,  indeed,  you  little  vagabond  ?  "  said 
Hans,  administering  an  educational  box  on  the  ear,  as 
he  followed  his  brother  into  the  kitchen. 

44  Bless  my  soul !  "  said  Schwartz,  when  he  opened 
the  door. 

•  44  Amen,"  said  the  little  gentleman,  who  had  taken 
his  cap  off,  and  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen,  bowing  with  the  utmost  possible  velocity. 

44  Who  's  that  ?  "  said  Schwartz,  catching  up  a  roll- 
ing-pin, and  turning  to  Gluck  with  a  fierce  frown. 

44 1  don't  know,  indeed,  brother,"  said  Gluck  in 
great  terror. 

44  How  did  he  get  in  ?  "  roared  Schwartz. 

44  My  dear  brother,"  said  Gluck,  deprecatingly,  44  he 
was  so  very  wet !  " 

The  rolling-pin  was  descending  on  Gluck's  head ; 
but,  at  the  instant,  the  old  gentleman  interposed  his 
conical  cap,  on  which  it  crashed  with  a  shock  that 
shook  the  water  out  of  it  all  over  the  room.  What  was 
very  odd,  the  rolling-pin  no  sooner  touched  the  cap 
than  it  flew  out  of  Schwartz's  hand,  spinning  like  a 
straw  in  a  high  wind,  and  fell  into  the  corner  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room. 

44  Who  are  you,  sir  ?  "  demanded  Schwartz,  turning 
upon  him. 

44  What 's  your  business  ?  "  snarled  Hans. 

44 I'm  a  poor  old  man,  sir,"  the  little  gentleman 
began  very  modestly,  44  and  I  saw  your  fire  through 
the 'window,  and  begged  shelter  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour." 

44  Have  the  goodness  to  walk  out  again,  then,"  said 


68  SIXTH  YEAR 

Schwartz.  "  We've  quite  enough  water  in  our  kitchen 
without  making  it  a  drying-house." 

"  It  is  a  cold  day  to  turn  an  old  man  out  in,  sir ; 
look  at  my  gray  hairs."  They  hung  down  to  his  shoul- 
ders, as  I  told  you  before. 

"  Ay !  "  said  Hans,  "  there  are  enough  of  them  to 
keep  you  warm.  Walk  !  " 

"  I  'm  very,  very  hungry,  sir  ;  could  n't  you  spare 
me  a  bit  of  bread  before  I  go?  " 

"  Bread,  indeed  !  "  said  Schwartz  ;  "do  you  suppose 
we  've  nothing  to  do  with  our  bread  but  to  give  it  to 
such  red-nosed  fellows  as  you  ?  " 

"  Why  don't  you  sell  your  feather,"  said  Hans, 
sneeringly.  "  Out  with  you  !  " 

"  A  little  bit  —  "  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"Be  off!"  said  Schwartz. 

"  Pray,  gentlemen  — 

"  Off,  and  be  hanged  !  "  cried  Hans,  seizing  him  by 
the  collar.  But  he  had  no  sooner  touched  the  old  gen- 
tleman's collar,  than  away  he  went  after  the  rolling- 
pin,  spinning  round  and  round,  till  he  fell  into  the 
corner  on  the  top  of  it.  Then  Schwartz  was  very  an- 
gry, and  ran  at  the  old  gentleman  to  turn  him  out ; 
but  he  also  had  hardly  touched  him,  when  away  he 
went  after  Hans  and  the  rolling-pin,  and  hit  his  head 
against  the  wallas  he  tumbled  into  the  corner.  And  so 
there  they  lay,  all  three. 

Then  the  old  gentleman  spun  himself  round  with 
velocity  in  the  opposite  direction  ;  clapped  his  cap  on 
his  head,  gave  an  additional  twist  to  his  corkscrew 
moustaches,  and  replied  with  perfect  coolness :  "  Gen- 
tlemen, I  wish  you  a  very  good-morning.  At  twelve 
o'clock  to-night  I  '11  call  again  ;  after  such  a  refusal  of 
hospitality  as  I  have  just  experienced,  you  will  not  be 
surprised  if  that  visit  is  the  last  I  ever  pay  you." 


SIXTH  YEAR  69 

MAIZE,  THE  NATION'S   EMBLEM 

CELIA   THAXTEB 

UPON  a  hundred  thousand  plains 

Its  banners  rustle  in  the  breeze, 
O'er  all  the  nation's  wide  domains 

From  coast  to  coast  betwixt  the  seas. 

It  storms  the  hills  and  fills  the  vales,  5 

It  marches  like  an  army  grand, 
The  continent  its  presence  hails, 

Its  beauty  brightens  all  the  land. 

Far  back  through  history's  shadowy  page 

It  shines,  a  power  of  boundless  good,  10 

The  people's  prop  from  age  to  age, 
The  one  unfailing  wealth  of  food. 

God's  gift  to  the  New  World's  great  need 
That  helped  to  build  the  nation's  strength, 

Up  through  beginnings  rude  to  lead  15 

A  higher  race  of  men  at  length. 

How  straight  and  tall  and  stately  stand 
Its  serried  stalks  upright  and  strong ! 

How  nobly  are  its  outlines  planned, 

What  grace  and  charm  to  it  belong !  20 

What  splendor  in  its  rustling  leaves ! 

What  richness  in  its  close-set  gold  ! 
What  largess  in  its  clustered  sheaves, 

New  every  year,  though  ages  old  I 

America,  from  thy  broad  breast,  25 

It  sprang,  beneficent  and  bright, 


70  SIXTH  YEAR 

Of  all  thy  gifts  from  heaven  the  best, 
For  the  world's  succor  .and  delight. 

Then  do  it  honor,  give  it  praise ! 

A  noble  emblem  should  be  ours  ;  —  30 

Upon  thy  fair  shield  set  thy  Maize, 

More  glorious  than  a  myriad  flowers. 

And  let  thy  States  their  garland  bring, 
Each  its  own  lovely  blossom-sign, 

But  leading  all  let  Maize  be  king,  35 

Holding  its  place  by  right  divine. 

THE   CLOUD 
PERCY  BYSSHB  SHELLEY 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken   5 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under,  10 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 
And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 

And  all  the  night 't  is  my  pillow  white,  15 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 

Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 
Lightning  my  pilot  sits  ; 


SIXTH  YEAR  71 

In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ;  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills,  25 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  30 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning-star  shines  dead ; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag,  35 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden,  45 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 


72  SIXTH  YEAR 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  50 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent,       55 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ;          60 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof,  65 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  aivh  through  which  I  march, 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow  ;  70 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores  ;  75 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the   winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex 
gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  80 


SIXTH  YEAR  73 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the 

tomb, 
I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


CHRISTMASTIDE 

RICHARD  BURTON 

CHRISTMAS  time  is  a  time  of  cold, 

Of  weathers  bleak  and  of  winds  a-blow ; 

Never  a  flower  —  fold  on  fold 

Of  grace  and  beauty  —  tops  the  snow 

Or  breaks  the  black  and  bitter  mold.  5 

And  yet  't  is  warm  —  for  the  chill  and  gloom 
Glow  with  love  and  with  childhood's  glee ; 

And  yet  't  is  sweet  —  with  the  rich  perfume 
Of  sacrifice  and  of  charity. 

Where  are  flowers  more  fair  to  see?  10 

Christmas  tide,  it  is  warm  and  sweet ; 
A  whole  world's  heart  at  a  Baby's  feet ! 

KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  ANTS 
JOHN  GREBNLEAF  WHITTIBB 

OUT  from  Jerusalem 

The  king  rode  with  his  great 
War  chiefs  and  lords  of  state, 

And  Sheba's  queen  with  them ; 

Comely,  but  black  withal,  5 

To  whom,  perchance,  belongs 


74  SIXTH  YEAR 

That  wondrous  Song  of  songs, 
Sensuous  and  mystical, 

Whereto  devout  souls  turn 

In  fond,  ecstatic  dream,  10 

And  through  its  earth-born  theme 

The  Love  of  loves  discern. 

Proud  in  the  Syrian  sun, 

In  gold  and  purple  sheen, 

The  dusky  Ethiop  queen  15 

Smiled  on  King  Solomon. 

Wisest  of  men,  he  knew 

The  languages  of  all 

The  creatures  great  or  small 
That  trod  the  earth  or  flew.  20 

Across  an  ant-hill  led 

The  king's  path,  and  he  heard 
Its  small  folk,  and  their  word 

He  thus  interpreted : 

"  Here  comes  the  king  men  greet  25 

As  wise  and  good  and  just, 
To  crush  us  in  the  dust 
Under  his  heedless  feet." 

The  great  king  bowed  his  head, 

And  saw  the  wide  surprise  30 

Of  the  Queen  of  Sheba's  eyes 

As  he  told  her  what  they  said. 

**  O  king !  "  she  whispered  sweet, 
"  Too  happy  fate  have  they 


SIXTH  YEAR  75 

Who  perish  in  thy  way  35 

Beneath  thy  gracious  feet ! 

"  Thou  of  the  God-lent  crown, 
Shall  these  vile  creatures  dare 
Murmur  against  thee  where 
The  knees  of  kings  kneel  down  ?  "  40 

"  Nay,"  Solomon  replied, 

"  The  wise  and  strong  should  seek 
The  welfare  of  the  weak," 
And  turned  his  horse  aside. 

His  train,  with  quick  alarm,  45 

Curved  with  their  leader  round 
The  ant-hill's  peopled  mound, 

And  left  it  free  from  harm. 

The  jewelled  head  bent  low  ; 

"  O  king  !  "  she  said,  "  henceforth  50 

The  secret  of  thy  worth 
And  wisdom  well  I  know. 

"  Happy  must  be  the  State 
Whose  ruler  heedeth  more 
The  murmurs  of  the  poor  55 

Than  flatteries  of  the  great." 

SELECTIONS  FROM  SNOW-BOUND 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB 

THE   MOTHER 

OUR  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking-heel, 
Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 


70  SIXTH  YEAR 

At  midnight  on  Cocheco  town, 

And  how  .her  own  great-uncle  bore  5 

His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 

Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 

So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free 

(The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
Of  simple  life  and  country  ways),  10 

The  story  of  her  early  days,  — 
She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home ; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us  room ; 
We  stole  with  her  a  frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  conjuring-book,  15 

The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country-side ; 
We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 
The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away ;  20 

We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow  grew, 
What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down, 
Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay  25 

The  ducks'  black  squadron  anchored  lay, 
And  heard  the  wild  geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 

THE  SISTERS 

THERE,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 

Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside ; 

A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust, 

Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 

Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act,  5 

4.  Dover  in  New  Hampshire. 


SIXTH  YEAR  77 

And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact, 
Keeping  with  many  a  slight  disguise 
The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 

0  heart  sore-tried !  thou  hast  the  best 

That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee,  —  rest,        10 
Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things ! 
How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 
With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent 
Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings  ! 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part  15 

Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
Lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes,  20 

Now  bathed  in  the  unfading  green 
And  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
Oh,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill, 

Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms,  25 

Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still  ? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago :  — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain  ; 
And  now,  when  summer  south-winds  blow          30 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 

1  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 
I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod 
Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak, 

The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek,  35 

Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 
The  birds  are  glad ;  the  brier-rose  fills 


78  SIXTH  YEAR 

The  air  with  sweetness ;  all  the  hills 
Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky;  40 

But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 
For  something  gone  which  should  be  nigh, 
A  loss  in  all  familiar,  things, 
In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that  sings. 
And  yet,  dear  heart !  remembering  thee,  45 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old? 


THE   SCHOOLMASTER 

BRISK  wielder  of  the  birch  and  rule, 

The  master  of  the  district  school 

Held  at  the  fire  his  favorite  place. 

Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 

Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce  appeared        5 

The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 

He  teased  the  mitten-blinded  cat, 

Played  cross-pins  on  my  uncle's  hat, 

Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 

In  classic  Dartmouth's  college  halls.  10 

Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among, 

From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 

By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant, 

Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 

He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay  15 

His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way  ; 

Could  doff  at  ease  his  scholar's  gown 

To  peddle  wares  from  town  to  town ; 

Or  through  the  long  vacation's  reach 

In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach,  20 

Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 

At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round, 

The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight, 


SIXTH  YEAR  79 

The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty  night, 

The  rustic  party,  with  its  rough  25 

Accompaniment  of  blind-man's-buff, 

And  whirling-plate,  and  forfeits  paid, 

His  winter  task  a  pastime  made. 

Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 

He  tuned  his  merry  violin,  30 

Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 

Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding-yarn, 

Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told 

Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 

Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and  Rome  35 

Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 

And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 

'Twixt  Yankee  pedlers  and  old  gods  ; 

Where  Pindus-born  Arachthus  took 

The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook,  40 

And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will 

Became  a  huckleberry  hill. 

A  careless  boy  that  night  he  seemed ; 
But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 

And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed,  45 

And  hostage  from  the  future  took 
In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 

Large-brained,  clear-eyed,  of  such  as  he 

Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 

Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail,  50 

Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail ; 

All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit  strike, 

Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike ; 

Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 

The  darkness  and  the  ignorance,  55 

The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth, 


80  MXTH  YEAR 

Which  nurtured  Treason's  monstrous  growth, 

Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell 

Of  prison-torture  possible ; 

The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute,  60 

Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 

For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will, 

For  blind  routine,  wise-handed  skill  : 

A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 

Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence  65 

The  quick  wires  of  intelligence  ; 

Till  North  and  South  together  brought 

Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought, 

In  peace  a  common  flag  salute, 

And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free  70 

And  unresentful  rivalry, 

Harvest  the  fields  wherein  they  fought. 


WASHINGTON 

(From  Ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte) 
LORD  BYRON 

THE  Roman,  when  his  burning  heart 
Was  slaked  with  blood  of  Rome, 

Threw  down  the  dagger  —  dared  depart, 
In  savage  grandeur,  home. 

He  dared  depart  in  utter  scorn  5 

Of  men  that  such  a  yoke  had  borne, 
Yet  left  him  such  a  doom ! 

His  only  glory  was  that  hour 

Of  self-upheld  abandon  \1  power. 

The  Spaniard,  when  the  lust  of  sway  10 

Had  lost  its  quickening  spell, 


SIXTH  YEAR  81 

Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 

An  empire  for  a  cell ; 
A  strict  accountant  of  his  beads, 
A  subtle  disputant  on  creeds,  15 

His  dotage  trifled  well : 
Yet  better  had  he  neither  known 
A  bigot's  shrine,  nor  despot's  throne. 

Weighed  in  the  balance,  hero  dust 

Is  vile  as  vulgar  clay ;  20 

Thy  scales,  Mortality !  are  just 

To  all  that  pass  away  : 
But  yet  methought  the  living  great 
Some  higher  sparks  should  animate, 

To  dazzle  and  dismay  :  25 

Nor  seem'd  Contempt  could  thus  make  mirth 
Of  these,  the  Conquerors  of  the  earth. 

Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose 

When  gazing  on  the  Great ; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows,  30 

Nor  despicable  state  ? 

Yes  —  one  —  the  first  —  the  last  —  the  best  — 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate, 

Bequeathed  the  name  of  Washington,  35 

To  make  men  blush  there  was  but  one  I 


SIXTH  YEAR 
THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL 

(From  the  German  of  Julius  Mosen) 
HRKBT  WAMWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

ON  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm, 

Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a  trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 

And  by  nil  the  world  forsaken,  5 

Srr-  I  If  how  with  y.e.'ilnus  care 
At  tin-  ruthless  nail  of  iron 
A  little  bird  is  striving  there. 

Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring, 

With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease,  10 

From  the  cross  *t  would  free  the  Saviour, 
Its  Creator's  Son  release. 

And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness : 

14  Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good ! 
Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment,  15 

Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood  I  " 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill ; 

Covered  all  with  blood  so  clear, 
In  the  groves  of  pine  it  singeth 

Songs,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear.  20 


SIXTH  YEAR  83 

THE   RUBY-CROWNED   KINGLET1 
HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

I 

WHERE  's  your  kingdom,  little  king  ? 
Where  's  the  land  you  call  your  own, 
Where 's  the  palace,  and  your  throne  ? 
Fluttering  lightly  on  the  wing 

Through  the  blossom-world  of  May,  5 

Whither  lies  your  royal  way? 
Where 's  the  realm  that  owns  your  sway, 
Little  king  ? 

Far  to  northward  lies  a  land, 

Where  the  trees  together  stand  10 

Closer  than  the  blades  of  wheat, 

When  the  summer  is  complete. 

Like  a  robe  the  forests  hide 

Lonely  vale  and  mountain  side : 

Balsam,  hemlock,  spruce,  and  pine, —  15 

All  those  mighty  trees  are  mine. 

There 's  a  river  flowing  free ; 

All  its  waves  belong  to  me. 

There  's  a  lake  so  clear  and  bright 

Stars  shine  out  of  it  all  night,  20 

And  the  rowan-berries  red 

Round  it  like  a  girdle  spread. 

Feasting  plentiful  and  fine, 

Air  that  cheers  the  heart  like  wine, 

Royal  pleasures  by  the  score,  25 

Wait  for  me  in  Labrador. 

There  I  '11  build  my  dainty  nest ; 

1  From  The  Toiling  of  Felix  and  Other  Poems.  Copyright,  1900, 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


84  SIXTH  YEAR 

There  I  '11  fix  my  court  and  rest ; 

There  from  dawn  to  dark  I  '11  sing : 

Happy  kingdom  !    Lucky  king !  30 

ii 

Back  again,  my  little  king ! 
Is  your  happy  kingdom  lost 
To  that  rebel  knave,  Jack  Frost? 

Have  you  felt  the  snow-flakes  sting  ? 

Autumn  is  a  rude  disrober  ;  35 

1 1  "useless,  homeless  in  October, 
\V  hither  now  ?    Your  plight  is  sober, 
Exiled  king! 

Far  to  southward  lie  the  regions 

Where  my  loyal  flower-legions  40 

I  l"ld  possession  of  the  year, 

Filling  every  month  with  cheer. 

Christmas  wakes  the  winter  rose ; 

New  Year  daffodils  unclose ; 

Yellow  jasmine  through  the  woods  45 

Runs  in  March  with  golden  floods, 

Dropping  from  the  tallest  trees 

Shining  streams  that  never  freeze. 

Tliith.T  I  must  find  my  way, 

Fly  by  night  and  feed  by  day,  —  50 

Till  I  see  the  southern  moon 

Glistening  on  the  broad  lagoon, 

Where  the  cypress*  vivid  green, 

And  the  dark  magnolia's  sheen, 

Weave  a  shelter  round  my  home.  55 

There  the  snow-storms  never  come : 

There  the  bannered  mosses  gray 

In  the  breezes  gently  sway, 


SIXTH  YEAR  85 

Hanging  low  on  every  side 

Round  the  covert  where  I  hide.  60 

There  I  hold  my  winter  court, 

Full  of  merriment  and  sport : 

There  I  take  my  ease  and  sing: 

Happy  kingdom!    Lucky  king! 

in 

Little  boaster,  vagrant  king !  65 

Neither  north  nor  south  is  yours  : 
You  Ve  no  kingdom  that  endures. 
Wandering  every  fall  and  spring, 
With  your  painted  crown  so  slender, 
And  your  talk  of  royal  splendor,  70 

Must  I  call  you  a  Pretender, 
Landless  king? 

Never  king  by  right  divine 

Ruled  a  richer  realm  than  mine  I 

What  are  lands  and  golden  crowns,  75 

Armies,  fortresses,  and  towns, 

Jewels,  sceptres,  robes,  and  rings,  — 

What  are  these  to  song  and  wings  ? 

Everywhere  that  I  can  fly, 

There  I  own  the  earth  and  sky;  80 

Everywhere  that  I  can  sing, 

There  I  'm  happy  as  a  king. 

TO  A  WATERFOWL 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

WHITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 


86  SIXTH  YEAR 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye  5 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 

Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide,  10 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air —  15 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near.  20 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  sunnm-r  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou  'rt  gone !  the  abyss  of  heaven  25 

Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He,  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone,  31 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


SIXTH  YEAR  87 

THE  BIVOUAC  OF  THE  DEAD 
THEODORE  O'HARA 

THE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo ; 
No  more  on  Life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground  5 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind  ;  10 

No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind  ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms  ; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife  15 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed  ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud.  20 

And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade,          25 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past ; 


88  SIXTH  YEAR 

Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight  30 

Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 
The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain,  35 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  *4  Victory  or  Death."  40 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain  ; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew,  45 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide ; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'T  was  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave  50 

The  flower  of  his  beloved  land, 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour          55 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 
O'er  Angostura's  plain, 


SIXTH  YEAR  89 

And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldered  slain.  60 

The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground,  65 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave :  .70 

She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil  — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast  75 

On  many  a  bloody  shield  ; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre.  80 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead  ! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave ; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot  85 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 


90  SIXTH  YEAR 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell,  90 

When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell : 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light  95 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb. 


SEVENTH  YEAR 

YUSSOUF 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

A  STRANGER  came  one  night  to  Yussouf's  tent, 

Saying,  "  Behold  one  outcast  and  in  dread, 

Against  whose  life  the  bow  of  power  is  bent, 

Who  flies,  and  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head ; 

I  come  to  thee  for  shelter  and  for  food,  5 

To  Yussouf,  called  through  all  our  tribes  'The  Good.'" 

"  This  tent  is  mine,"  said  Yussouf,  "  but  no  more 

Than  it  is  God's ;  come  in,  and  be  at  peace ; 

Freely  shalt  thou  partake  of  all  my  store 

As  I  of  His  who  buildeth  over  these  10 

Our  tents  his  glorious  roof  of  night  and  day, 

And  at  whose  door  none  ever  yet  heard  Nay." 

So  Yussouf  entertained  his  guest  that  night, 

And,  waking  him  ere  day,  said  :  "  Here  is  gold ; 

My  swiftest  horse  is  saddled  for  thy  flight ;  15 

Depart  before  the  prying  day  grow  bold." 

As  one  lamp  lights  another,  nor  grows  less, 

So  nobleness  enkindleth  nobleness. 

That  inward  light  the  stranger's  face  made  grand, 
Which  shines  from  all  self -con  quest ;  kneeling  low,  20 
He  bowed  his  forehead  upon  Yussouf's  hand, 
Sobbing  :  "  O  Sheik,  I  cannot  leave  thee  so ; 


92  SEVENTH  YEAR 

I  will  repay  thee  ;  all  this  thoti  hast  done 
Unto  that  Ibrahim  who  slew  thy  son !  " 

"  Take  thrice  the  gold,"  said  Yussouf ,  "  for  with  thee 
Into  the  desert,  never  to  return,  26 

My  one  black  thought  shall  ride  away  from  me ; 
First  born,  for  whom  by  day  and  night  I  yearn, 
Balanced  and  just  are  all  of  God's  decrees ; 
Thou  art  avenged,  my  first-born,  sleep  in  peace !  "    30 

PSALM  XIX 

1HK    BIBLE 

THE  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God  ;  and  the  fir- 
mament showeth  his  bandy  work. 

Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,  and  night  unto  night 
showeth  knowledge. 

There  is  no  speech  nor  language  where  their  voice 
is  not  heard. 

Their  line  is  gone  out  through  all  the  earth,  and 
their  words  to  the  end  of  the  world.  In  th.-m  hath  he 
set  a  tabernacle  for  the  sun  ;  which  is  as  a  bridegroom 
coming  out  of  his  chamber,  and  rejoiceth  as  a  strong 
man  to  run  'a  race. 

His  going  forth  is  from  the  end  of  the  heaven,  and 
iii-  circuit  unto  the  ends  of  it:  and  there  is  nothing 
hid  from  the  beat  thei 

The  law  of  the  Lord  is  perfect,  converting  the  soul: 
the  testimony  of  the  Lord  is  sure,  making  \vi>»-  tl,«- 
simple :  the  statutes  of  the  Lord  are  right,  rejoicing 
the  heart :  the  commandment  of  the  Lord  is  pure, 
enlightening  the  eyes :  the  fear  of  the  Lord  is  clean, 
enduring  for  ever :  the  judgments  of  the  Lord  are  true 
and  righteous  altogether. 


SEVENTH   YEAR  93 

More  to  be  desired  are  they  than  gold,  yea,  than 
much  fine  gold ;  sweeter  also  than  honey,  and  the 
honey-comb. 

Moreover  by  them  is  thy  servant  warned :  and  in 
keeping  of  them  there  is  great  reward. 

Who  can  understand  his  errors  ?  Cleanse  thou  me 
from  secret  faults. 

Keep  back  thy  servant  also  from  presumptuous  sins ; 
let  them  not  have  dominion  over  me :  then  shall  I  be 
upright,  and  I  shall  be  innocent  from  the  great  trans- 
gression. 

Let  the  words  of  my  mouth,  and  the  meditation  of 
my  heart,  be  acceptable  in  thy  sight,  O  Lord,  my 
strength,  and  my  redeemer. 


THE  HUSKERS 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autumnal 
rain 

Had  left  the  summer  harvest-fields  all  green  with  grass 
again ; 

The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all  the  wood- 
lands gay 

With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the  meadow- 
flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the  sun  rose 
broad  and  red,  5 

At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened  as  he 
sped; 

Yet,  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened  and  sub- 
dued, 


94  SEVKNTII    YEAR 

On  the  cornfields  and  the  orchards,  and  softly  pictured 
wood. 

And   all   that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping  to   the 

night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with  yellow 

light  :  10 

Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he  glorified  the 

hill: 
And,   beneath   it,   pond   and   meadow  lay  brighter, 

greener  still. 

And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts  caught  glimpses 

of  that  sky, 
Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and  laughed,  they 

knew  not  why ; 
And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers,  beside  the 

meadow  brooks,  15 

Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sunshine  of 

sweet  looks. 

From  spire  and  barn  looked  westerly  the  patient 

weathercocks ; 
But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  motionless  as 

rocks. 
No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the  squirel's 

dropping  shell, 
And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs,  low  rustling 

as  they  fell.  20 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested ;  the  stubble-fields 

lay  dry, 
Where  June  winds  rolled,  in  light  and  shade,  the  pale 

green  waves  of  rye  ; 


SEVENTH   YEAR  95 

But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys  fringed  with 

wood, 
Ungathered,  bleaching  in  the  sun,  the  heavy  corn  crop 

stood. 

Bent  low,  by  autumn's  wind  and  rain,  through  husks 

that,  dry  and  sere,  25 

Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone  out  the 

yellow  ear; 
Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many  a  verdant 

fold, 
And  glistened  in  the  slanting  light  the  pumpkin's 

sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters ;  and  many  a  creak- 
ing wain 

Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load  of  husk 
and  grain ;  30 

Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sank 
down,  at  last, 

And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day  in  bright- 
ness passed. 

And  lo !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on  meadow, 

stream,  and  pond, 

Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all  afire  beyond, 
Slowly   o'er   the   eastern   sea-bluffs   a   milder    glory 

shone,  35 

And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  mingled  into 

one! 

As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight  lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in  the   brightening  moon  the   tranquil 
shadows  lay ; 


96  SEVENTH   YEAR 

From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and  hamlet  with- 
out name, 

Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done,  the  merry 
buskers  came.  40 

Swung  o'er  the  heaped-up  harvest,  from  pitchforks 

in  the  mow, 
Shone  dimly  down  the  lanterns  on  the  pleasant  scene 

below; 
The  growing  pile  of  husks  behind,  the  golden  ears 

before, 
And  laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands  and  brown  cheeks 

glimmering  o'er. 

Half  hidden,  in  a  quiet  nook,  serene  of  look  and 
heart,  45 

Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men  sat  apart  : 

While  up  and  down  the  unhusked  pile,  or  nestling  in 
its  shade, 

At  hi<le-nml-seek,  with  laugh  and  shout,  the  happy 
children  played. 

Urged  by  the  good  host's  daugbter,'a  maiden  young 

and  fair, 
Lifting  to  light  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  pride  of  soft 

brown  hair,  50 

The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of  hair  and 

smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a  husking- 

ballad  sung. 


SEVENTH  YEAR  97 

WENDELL   PHILLIPS 
JAMBS  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

HE  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  threshold  ;  wide 

The  din  of  battle  and  of  slaughter  rose  ; 

He  saw  God  stand  upon  the  weaker  side, 

That  sank  in  seeming  loss  before  his  foes : 

Many  there  were  who  made  great  haste  and  sold         5 

Unto  the  cunning  enemy  their  swords, 

He  scorned  their  gifts  of  fame,  and  power,  and  gold, 

And,  underneath  their  soft  and  flowery  words, 

Heard  the  cold  serpent  hiss ;  therefore  he  went 

And  humbly  joined  him  to  the  weaker  part,  10 

Fanatic  named,  and  fool,  yet  well  content 

So  he  could  be  the  nearer  to  God's  heart, 

And  feel  its  solemn  pulses  sending  blood 

Through  all  the  widespread  veins  of  endless  good. 


MIDNIGHT 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

THE  moon  shines  white  and  silent 
On  the  mist,  which,  like  a  tide 

Of  some  enchanted  ocean, 

O'er  the  wide  marsh  doth  glide, 

Spreading  its  ghost-like  billows  5 

Silently  far  and  wide. 

A  vague  and  starry  magic 

Makes  all  things  mysteries, 
And  lures  the  earth's  dumb  spirit 

Up  to  the  longing  skies ;  10 


98  SEVENTH    YEAR 

I  seem  to  hear  dim  whispers, 
And  tremulous  replies. 

The  fireflies  o'er  the  meadow 

In  pulses  come  and  go ; 
The  elm-trees'  heavy  shadow  15 

Weighs  on  the  grass  below  ; 
And  faintly  from  the  distance 

The  dreaming  cock  doth  crow. 

All  things  look  strange  and  mystic, 

The  very  bushes  swell  20 

And  take  wild  shapes  and  motions, 
As  if  beneath  a  spell ; 

They  seem  not  the  same  lilacs 
From  childhood  known  so  welL 

The  snow  of  deepest  silence  25 

O'er  everything  doth  fall, 
So  beautiful  and  quiet, 

And  yet  so  like  a  pall ; 
As  if  all  life  were  ended, 

And  rest  were  come  to  all.  30 

O  wild  and  wondrous  midnight, 

There  is  a  might  in  thee 
To  make  the  charmed  body 

Almost  likr  spirit  be, 

And  give  it  some  faint  glimpses  35 

Of  immortality! 


SEVENTH   YEAR  99 

THE  PRESENT  CRISIS 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

WHEN  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the  broad 

earth's  aching  breast 
Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from  east 

to  west, 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  the  soul  within 

him  climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sublime 
Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the  thorny  stem 

of  Time.  5 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots  the  instan- 
taneous throe, 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings  earth's  systems 
to  and  fro ; 

At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a  recognizing  start, 

Nation  wildly  looks  at  nation,  standing  with  mute  lips 
apart, 

And  glad  Truth's  yet  mightier  man-child  leaps  beneath 
the  Future's  heart.  10 

So  the  Evil's  triumph  sendeth,  with  a  terror  and  a 

chill, 
Under  continent  to  continent,  the  sense  of  coming 

HI, 

And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  his  sympathies 

with  God 
In  hot  tear-drops  ebbing  earthward,  to  be  drunk  up  by 

the  sod, 
Till  a  corpse  crawls  round  unburied,  delving  in  the 

nobler  clod.  15 


100  SEVENTH   YEAR 

For  mankind  are  one  in  spirit,  and  an  instinct  bears 

along, 
Round  the  earth's  electric  circle,  the  swift  flash  of 

right  or  wrong ; 
Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet  Humanity's 

vast  frame 
Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres  feels  the  gush  of  joy 

or  shame ;  — 
In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race  all  the  rest  have  equal 

claim.  20 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  comes  the  moment  to 

decide, 
lo  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or 

evil  side ; 
Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah,  offering  each 

the  bloom  or  blight, 
Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  sheep  upon 

the  right, 
And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  darkness 

and  that  light.  25 

Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  people,  on  whose  party  thou 

shalt  stand, 
Ere  the  Doom  from  its  worn  sandals  shakes  the  dust 

against  our  land  ? 
Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  't  is  Truth  alone 

is  strong. 
And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  I  see  around  her 

throng 
Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  enshield  her  from 

all  wrong.  30 

Backward  look  across  the  ages  and  the  beacon-moments 


SEVENTH  YEAK  101 

That,  like  peaks  of  some  sunk  continent,  jut  through 

Oblivion's  sea ; 
Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the  low  foreboding 

cry 
Of  those  Crises,  God's  stern  winnowers,  from  whose 

feet  earth's  chaff  must  fly  ; 
Never  shows  the  choice  momentous  till  the  judgment 

hath  passed  by.  35 

Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger ;  history's  pages  but 

record 
One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  systems 

and  the  Word ; 
Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  Wrong  forever  on  the 

throne,  — 
Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the 

dim  unknown, 
Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above 

his  own.  40 

We  see  dimly  in  the  Present  what  is  small  and  what  is 

great, 
Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn  the  iron  helm 

of  fate, 

But  the  soul  is  still  oracular ;  amid  the  market's  din, 
List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the  Delphic  cave 

within,  — 
"  They  enslave  their  children's  children  who  make 

compromise  with  sin."  45 

Slavery,  the  earth-born  Cyclops,  fellest  of  the  giant 

brood, 
Sons  of  brutish  Force  and  Darkness,  who  have  drenched 

the  earth  with  blood, 


102  SEVENTH   YEAR 

Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blinded  by  our  purer 

day, 
Gropes  in  yet  unblasted   regions  for  his  miserable 

prey;- 
Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where  our  helpless 

children  play  ?  50 

Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble  when  we  share  her 
wretched  crust, 

Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,  and  't  is  prosper- 
ous to  be  just ; 

Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while  the  coward 
stands  aside, 

Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  till  his  Lord  is  crucified, 

And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the  faith  they  had 
denied.  55 

Count  me  o'er  earth's  chosen  heroes,  —  they  were 
souls  that  stood  alone, 

While  the  men  they  agonized  for  hurled  the  contume- 
lious stone, 

Stood  serene,  and  down  the  future  saw  the  golden 
beam  incline 

To  the  side  of  perfect  justice,  mastered  by  their  faith 
<li  vine, 

By  one  man's  plain  truth  to  manhood  and  to  God's 
supreme  design.  60 

By  the  light  of  burning  heretics  Christ's  bleeding  feet 
I  track, 

Toiling  up  new  Calvaries  ever  with  the  cross  that  turns 
not  back, 

And  these  mounts  of  anguish  number  how  each  gen- 
eration learned 

One  new  word  of  that  grand  Credo  which  in  prophet- 
hearts  hath  burned 


SEVENTH  YEAR  103 

Since  the  first  man  stood  God-conquered  with  his  face 
to  heaven  upturned.  65 

For  Humanity  sweeps  onward :  where  to-day  the  mar- 
tyr stands, 

On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the  silver  in  his 
hands ; 

Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready  and  the  crackling 
fagots  burn, 

While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in  silent  awe 
return 

To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  History's  golden 
urn.  70 

'T  is  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 

Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our  fathers'  graves, 

Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the  present  light 

a  crime ;  — 
Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards,  steered  by 

men  behind  their  time  ? 
Turn  those  tracks  toward  Past  or  Future,  that  make 

Plymouth  Rock  sublime  ?  75 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  stalwart  old  icono- 
clasts, 

Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all  virtue  was  the 
Past's ; 

But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood,  thinking  that 
hath  made  us  free, 

Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments,  while  our  tender 
spirits  flee 

The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse  which  drove 
them  across  the  sea.  80 


104  SEVENTH   YEAR 

They  have  rights  who  dare  maintain  them ;  we  are 

traitors  to  our  sires, 
Smothering   in    their   holy  ashes   Freedom's   new-lit 

altar-fires ; 
Shall  we  make  their  creed  our  jailer  ?   Shall  we,  in 

our  haste  to  slay, 
From  the  tombs  of  the  old  prophets  steal  the  funeral 

lamps  away 
To  light  up  the  martyr-fagots  round  the  prophets  of 

to-day?  85 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties;  Time  makes  ancient 

good  uncouth  : 
They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would  keep 

abreast  of  Truth  , 
Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires !  we  ourselves  must 

Pilgrims  be, 
Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through  the 

(IrsjMTate  wintrr  sell, 

Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's  blood- 
rusted  key.  90 


THE  FROST  SPIRIT 
JOHN  GHKKKLKAF  WHITHER 

HE  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes!  You 

may  trace  his  footsteps  now 
On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields  and  the 

brown  hill's  withered  brow. 
He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old  trees  where 

their  pleasant  green  came  forth, 
And  the  winds,  which  follow  wherever  he  goes,  have 

shaken  them  down  to  earth. 


SEVENTH   YEAR  105 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes !  from 

the  frozen  Labrador,  5 

From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,  which  the 

white  bear  wanders  o'er, 
Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with  ice,  and  the 

luckless  forms  below 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into  marble 

statues  grow ! 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes !  on 
the  rushing  Northern  blast, 

And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as  his  fear- 
ful breath  went  past.  10 

With  an  un scorched  wing  he  has  hurried  on,  where  the 
fires  of  Hecla  glow 

On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and  the  ancient  ice 
below. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes!  and 
the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 

The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and  ring  to  the 
skater's  heel ; 

And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the  broken  rocks,  or 
sang  to  the  leaning  grass,  15 

Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,  and  in  mourn- 
ful silence  pass. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit  comes!  Let 

us  meet  him  as  we  may, 
And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire  his  evil  power 

away ; 
And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when  that  firelight 

dances  high, 
And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  Fiend  as  his 

sounding  wing  goes  by  !  20 


106  SEVENTH    YKAR 

THOSE  EVKMN<;   BELLS 
THOMAS  MOORE 

THOSE  evening  bells!  those  evening  bells! 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells, 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime! 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away ;  5 

And  many  a  heart,  that  thru  was  gay, 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dw< 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

And  so  't  will  be  when  I  am  gone  ; 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on,  10 

While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells! 


GETTYSBURG  SPEECH 
ABRAHAM  LIMCOLX 

FOURSCORE  and  seven  years  ago,  on  rfathrr>  brought 

forth  mi  thU  continent  a  new  nat  inn,  r«>nrri\  rd  in  lil»- 
erty,  and  drdi«-at«-d  to  the  jirnpn^it  inn  that  all  mm 
are  creatrd  «-<|nal.  Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  gnat 
civil  war,  testing  whether  that  nat  ion,  m-  any  nation  10 
conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long  end  me.  We  are 
met  on  a  great  battlefield  of  that  war.  We  have  come 
to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that  field  as  a  final  renting- 
place  for  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that  na- 
tion might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper 
that  we  should  do  this.  But  in  a  larger  sense  \v«  .-an- 


SEVENTH   YEAR  107 

not  dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow 
this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who 
struggled  here,  have  consecrated  it  far  above  our  poor 
power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world  will  little  note, 
nor  long  remember,  what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never 
forget  what  they  did  here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living, 
rather  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished  work 
which  they  who  fought  here  have  thus  far  so  nobly  ad- 
vanced. It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to 
the  great  task  remaining  before  us, — that  from  these 
honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  that  cause 
for  which  they  gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devotion, 
—  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall 
not  have  died  in  vain,  — that  this  nation,  under  God, 
shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  — and  that  govern- 
ment of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people,  shall 
not  perish  from  the  earth. 


THE  OAK 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

WHAT  gnarled  stretch,  what  depth  of  shade,  is  his  I 

There  needs  no  crown  to  mark  the  forest's  king; 
How  in  his  leaves  outshines  full  summer's  bliss ! 

Sun,  storm,  rain,  dew,  to  him  their  tribute  bring, 
Which  he  with  such  benignant  royalty  5 

Accepts,  as  overpayeth  what  is  lent ; 
All  nature  seems  his  vassal  proud  to  be, 

And  cunning  only  for  his  ornament. 

How  towers  he,  too,  amid  the  billowed  snows, 

An  unquelled  exile  from  the  summer's  throne,      10 

Whose  plain,  uncinctured  front  more  kingly  shows, 
Now  that  the  obscuring  courtier  leaves  are  flown. 


108  SEVENTH   YEAR 

His  boughs  make  music  of  the  winter  air, 

Jewelled  with  sleet,  like  some  cathedral  front 

Where  clinging  snow-flakes  with  quaint  art  repair  15 
The  dints  and  furrows  of  time's  envious  brunt. 

How  doth  his  patient  strength  the  rude  March  wind 

Persuade  to  seem  glad  breaths  of  summer  breeze, 
And  win  the  soil  that  fain  would  be  unkind, 

To  swell  his  revenues  with  proud  increase  I  20 

He  is  the  gem ;  and  all  the  landscape  wide 

(So  doth  his  grandeur  isolate  the  sense) 
Seems  but  the  setting,  worthless  all  beside, 

An  empty  socket,  were  he  fallen  thence. 

So,  from  oft  convene  with  life's  wintry  gales,          25 

Should  man  learn  how  to  clasp  with  tougher  roots 
The  inspiring  earth ;  how  otherwise  avails 

The  leaf-creating  sap  that  sunward  shoots  ? 
So  every  year  that  falls  with  noiseless  flake 

Should  fill  old  scars  up  on  the  stormward  side,    30 
And  make  hoar  age  revered  for  age's  sake, 

Not  for  traditions  of  youth's  leafy  pride. 

So,  from  the  pinched  soil  of  a  churlish  fate, 

True  hearts  compel  the  sap  of  sturdier  growth, 
So  between  earth  and  heaven  stand  simply  great,     35 

That  these  shall  seem  but  their  attendants  both ; 
For  nature's  forces  with  obedient  zeal 

Wait  on  the  rooted  faith  and  oaken  will ; 
As  quickly  the  pretender's  cheat  they  feel, 

And  turn  mad  Pucks  to  flout  and  mock  him  si  ill. 

Lord  !  all  Thy  works  are  lessons  ;  each  contains      41 
Some  emblem  of  man's  all-containing  soul  ; 
40.  See  Shakespeare's  A  Midnummer  Nighfg  Dream. 


SEVENTH   YEAR  109 

Shall  he  make  fruitless  all  Thy  glorious  pains, 
Delving  within  Thy  grace  an  eyeless  mole  ? 

Make  me  the  least  of  thy  Dodona-grove,  45 

Cause  me  some  message  of  thy  truth  to  bring, 

Speak  but  a  word  through  me,  nor  let  thy  love 
Among  my  boughs  disdain  to  perch  and  sing. 


TO  THE  DANDELION 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

DEAR  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride  uphold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they          5 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow  10 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease ; 

T  is  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand,  15 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ;  20 

45.  A  grove  of  oaks  at  Dodona,  in  ancient  Greece,  was  the 
seat  of  a  famous  oracle. 


110  SEVKNTII    VKAR 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time: 

Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent,  25 

His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass, 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass,  30 

The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 
Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above,  35 

Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  < -hi  1.1  hood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with 

thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long,  40 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  1  were  happy  peers.    45 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art  I 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 


SEVENTH   YEAR  111 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam  50 

Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

TO   WILLIAM   LLOYD   GARRISON 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

"  Some  time  afterward,  it  was  reported  to  me  by  the  city  officers 
that  they  had  ferreted  out  the  paper  and  its  editor ;  that  his  office  was 
an  obscure  hole,  his  only  visible  auxiliary  a  negro  boy,  and  his  sup- 
porters a  few  very  insignificant  persons  of  all  colors." —  Letter  ofH.  O. 
Otis. 

IN  a  small  chamber,  friendless  and  unseen, 

Toiled  o'er  his  types  one  poor,  unlearned  young  man ; 

The  place  was  dark,  unfurnitured,  and  mean ; 
Yet  there  the  freedom  of  a  race  began. 

Help  came  but  slowly  ;  surely  no  man  yet  5 

Put  lever  to  the  heavy  world  with  less : 

What  need  of  help?  He  knew  how  types  were  set, 
He  had  a  dauntless  spirit,  and  a  press. 

Such  earnest  natures  are  the  fiery  pith, 

The  compact  nucleus,  round  which  systems  grow  ;  10 
Mass  after  mass  becomes  inspired  therewith, 

And  whirls  impregnate  with  the  central  glow. 

O  Truth !  O  Freedom !  how  are  ye  still  born 
In  the  rude  stable,  in  the  manger  nurst ! 

What  humble  hands  unbar  those  gates  of  morn        15 
Through  which  the  splendors  of  the  New  Day  burst ! 

What !  shall  one  monk,  scarce  known  beyond  his  cell, 
Front  Rome's  far-reaching   bolts,  and  scorn   her 
frown  ? 


112  SEVENTH   YEAR 

Brave  Luther  answered  YES;  that  thunder's  swell    19 
Rocked  Europe,  and  discharraed  the  triple  crown. 

Whatever  can  be  known  of  earth  we  know, 

Sneered  Europe's  wise  men,  in  their  snail-shells 
curled ; 

No !  said  one  man  in  Genoa,  and  that  No 

Out  of  the  darkness  summoned  this  New  World. 

Who  is  it  will  not  dare  himself  to  trust  ?  25 

Who  is  it  hath  not  strength  to  stand  alone  ? 

Who  is  it  thwarts  and  bilks  the  inward  MUST? 

He  and  his  works,  like  sand,  from  earth  are  blown. 

Men  of  a  thousand  shifts  and  wiles,  look  here ! 

See  one  straightforward  conscience  put  in  pawn    30 
To  win  a  world ;  see  the  obedient  sphere 

By  bravery's  simple  gravitation  drawn  I 

Shall  we  not  heed  the  lesson  taught  of  old, 
And  by  the  Present's  lips  repeated  still, 

In  our  own  single  manhood  to  be  bold,  35 

Fortressed  in  conscience  and  impregnable  will? 

We  stride  the  river  daily  at  its  spring, 

Nor,  in  our  childish  thoughtlessness,  foresee, 

\V  hat  myriad  vassal  streams  shall  tribute  bring, 
How  like  an  equal  it  shall  greet  the  sea.  40 

O  small  beginnings,  ye  are  great  and  strong, 
Based  on  a  faithful  heart  and  weariless  brain ! 

Ye  build  the  future  fair,  ye  conquer  wrong, 
Ye  earn  the  crown,  and  wear  it  not  in  vain. 


EIGHTH   YEAR 

RECESSIONAL1 

A   VICTORIAN   ODE 
RUDTARD  KIPLING 

GOD  of  our  fathers,  kiiown  of  old  — 
Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line  — 

Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 
Dominion  over  palm  and  pine  — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet,  5 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies  — 
The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart  — 

Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 

An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart.  10 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 

Far-called  our  navies  melt  away  — 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire  — 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday  15 

Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre ! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 

Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe  —  20 

1  From  The  Collected  Verse  of  Rudyard  Kipling,  published  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 


114  EIGHTH  YEAR 

Such  boastings  as  the  Gentiles  use, 

Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law  — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust  2o 

In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard  — 

All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 
And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard. 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 

Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord .'  30 

Amen. 


THE  VILLAGE  PREACHER 

(Prom  "  The  Deserted  Village  ") 
OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

NEAR  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smil'd, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild, 
Tli. -re,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear,  5 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wish'd  to  change,  his  place ; 
Tiipr.'K  tis\l  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  faahion'd  to  the  varying  hour ;  10 

Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
1 1U  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain ; 
The  long-remembered  .beggar  was  his  guest,  15 

Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 


EIGHTH   YEAR  115 

The  rnin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed. 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away ;  20 

Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  shew'd  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleas'd  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan,  25 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretches  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side: 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for  all.      30 
And  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 
Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid,  35 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.    At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise.        40 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man,  45 

With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
Even  children  followed,  with  endearing  wile, 


116  EIGHTH  YEAR 

And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 

1 1  is  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest, 

Their  welfare  pleas' d  him.  and  their  cares  distrest;50 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven : 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head.  ."»• 


ABRAHAM   DAVENPORT 
JOHX  GREBVLEAF  WHITTIKB 

The  famous  Dark  Day  of  New  England,  May  19,  1780,  was  a  physi- 
cal puzzle  for  many  yean  to  our  ancestors,  but  its  occurrence  brought 
something  more  than  philosophical  speculation  into  the  minds  of  those 
who  passed  through  it  The  incident  of  Colonel  Abraham  Davenport's 
sturdy  protest  is  a  matter  of  history. 

IN  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 

With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)  the  people  sent 

Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public  laws. 

And  so,  from  a  brown  homestead,  where  the  Sound 

Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mi  anas,  5 

Wav.-d  OV.T  1»y  tin;  woods  of  Kij.powains, 

And  hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tran-jnil  deaths, 

Stamford  sent  up  to  the  councils  of  the  State 

W  isdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Davenport. 

'T  was  on  a  May-day  of  the  far  old  year  10 

Seventeen  hundred  eighty,  that  there  Ml 
Over  the  bloom  and  sweet  life  of  the  Spring, 
Over  the  fresh  earth  and  the  heaven  of  noon, 


EIGHTH  YEAR  117 

A  horror  of  great  darkness,  like  the  night 

In  day  of  which  the  Norland  sagas  tell,  —  15 

The  Twilight  of  the  Gods.     The  low-hung  sky 

Was  black  with  ominous  clouds,  save  where  its  rim 

Was  fringed  with  a  dull  glow,  like  that  which  climbs 

The  crater's  sides  from  the  red  hell  below, 

Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barn-yard  fowls    20 

Eoosted ;  the  cattle  at  the  pasture  bars 

Lowed,    and  looked   homeward ;  bats   on  leathern 

wings 

Flitted  abroad ;  the  sounds  of  labor  died  ; 
Men  prayed,  and  women  wept ;  all  ears  grew  sharp 
To  hear  the  doom-blast  of  the  trumpet  shatter       25 
The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of  Christ 
Might  look  from  the  rent  clouds,  not  as  he  looked 
A  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 
As  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile    in    the   old    State   House,    dim    as 
ghosts,  30 

Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 
Trembling  beneath  their  legislative  robes. 
"  It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day  !    Let  us  adjourn,'* 
Some  said  ;  and  then,  as  if  with  one  accord, 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Davenport.         36 
He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady  voice 
The  intolerable  hush.    "  This  well  may  be 
The  Day  of  Judgment  which  the  world  awaits ; 
But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 
My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  command  40 

To  occupy  till  He  come.    So  at  the  post 
Where  He  hath  set  me  in  His  Providence, 
I  choose,  for  one,  to  meet  Him  face  to  face,  — 
No  faithless  servant  frightened  from  my  task, 


118  EIGHTH  YEAR 

But  ready  \\hon  the  Lord  of  thr  harvest  calls  ;         45 
And  therefore,  with  all  reverence,  I  would  say, 
Let  God  do  His  work,  we  will  see  to  ours, 
Bring  in  the  candles."  And  they  brought  them  in. 

Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker  read, 
Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking  hands,  50 

An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 
The  shad  and  alewive  fisheries.    Whereupon 
Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Davenport, 
Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures  of  speech 
Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without  55 

The  shrewd  dry  humor  natural  to  the  man  : 
His  awestruck  colleagues  listening  all  the  while, 
Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 
To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 
Break  from  the  hollow  trumpet  of  the  cloud.          60 

And  there  he  stands  in  memory  to  this  day, 
Erect,  self-poised,  a  rugged  face,  half  seen 
Against  the  background  of  unnatural  dark, 
A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass, 
That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear.  65 


THB  AMERICAN  FLAG 
JoflKPH  RODMAN  DBAHB 

AN' 1 11  A  Freedom  from  ln-r  mountain  height 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  nijrlit. 
And  set  the  stars  of  <Jory  there. 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 

The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies. 

And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 


EIGHTH  YEAR  119 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 

Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 

She  called  her  eagle  bearer  .down,  10 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trurn pings  loud  15 

And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, 
Child  of  the  sun  !  to  thee  't  is  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free,  20 

To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory  !  25 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 

When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 

And  the  long  line  conies  gleaming  on. 

Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet,  30 

Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 

Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 

To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 

And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 

Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance.         35 

And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 

Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud, 

And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 

Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 


120  EIGHTH  YEAR 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow,  40 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 

Kadi  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 

Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ;  45 

When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 

And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back, 

Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 

Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea  50 

Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 

And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 

In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home! 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given  ;  55 

Thy  stars  have  lit  the  \vi-lkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our -feet,  60 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us? 

FOR  AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL 
JOHN  GRBBNLKAr  WBITTIXB 

THE  Persian's  flowery  gifts,  the  shrine 
Of  fruitful  Ceres  charm  no  more ; 

The  woven  wreaths  of  oak  ;m«l  pine 
Are  dust  along  the  Isthmian  shore. 

But  beauty  hath  its  homage  still,  5 

And  nature  holds  us  still  in  debt; 


EIGHTH  YEAR  121 

And  woman's  grace  and  household  skill, 
And  manhood's  toil  are  honored  yet. 

And  we,  to-day,  amidst  our  flowers 

And  fruits,  have  come  to  own  again  10 

The  blessings  of  the  summer  hours, 

The  early  and  the  latter  rain ; 

To  see  our  Father's  hand  once  more 

Reverse  for  us  the  plenteous  horn 
Of  autumn,  filled  and  running  o'er  15 

With  fruit,  and  flower,  and  golden  corn ! 

Once  more  the  liberal  year  laughs  out 
O'er  richer  stores  than  gems  or  gold ; 

Once  more  with  harvest-song  and  shout 

Is  Nature's  bloodless  triumph  told.  20 

Our  common  mother  rests  and  sings, 

Like  Ruth,  among  her  garnered  sheaves ; 

Her  lap  is  full  of  goodly  things, 

Her  brow  is  bright  with  autumn  leaves. 

Oh,  favors  every  year  made  new  !  25 

Oh,  gifts  with  rain  and  sunshine  sent ! 

The  bounty  overruns  our  due, 

The  fulness  shames  our  discontent. 

We  shut  our  eyes,  the  flowers  bloom  on ; 

We  murmur,  but  the  corn -ears  fill,  30 

We  choose  the  shadow,  but  the  sun 

That  casts  it  shines  behind  us  still. 

God  gives  us  with  our  rugged  soil 

The  power  to  make  it  Eden-fair, 
And  richer  fruits  to  crown  our  toil  35 

Than  summer-wedded  islands  bear. 


122  EIGHTH  YEAR 

Who  murmurs  at  his  lot  to-day? 

Who  scorns  his  Dative  fruit  and  bloom? 
Or  sighs  for  dainties  far  away, 

Beside  the  bounteous  board  of  home  ?  40 

Thank  I  haven,  instead,  that  Freedom's  arm 
Can  change  a  rocky  soil  to  gold,  — 

That  brave  and  generous  lives  can  warm 
A  clime  with  northern  ices  cold. 

And  let  these  altars,  wreathed  with  flowers       45 
And  piled  with  fruits,  awake  again 

Thanksgivings  for  the  golden  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain ! 


THK    DKAT1I    OF    'HIE   OLD   YEAR 
ALFRXD,  LORD  TKXHTBOM 

FULL  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 

And  tin-  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing; 

Toll  yt  tli.-  (lunch-bell  sad  and  slow, 

And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 

For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying.  5 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily. 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

I  It-  lieth  still,  he  doth  not  move ;  10 

1 1*   will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true-love, 


EIGHTH  YEAR  123 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go  ;  15 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  f  roth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see.  20 

But  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 

And  tho'  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you,  25 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 

But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 

To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste  30 

His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 

But  he  '11  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend,  35 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes !  over  the  snow 

I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 

The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro ; 

The  cricket  chirps  ;  the  light  burns  low;  40 

7T  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we  '11  dearly  rue  for  you. 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you? 

Speak  out  before  you  die.  45 


124  EIGHTH   YEAR 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 

Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone. 

Close  up  his  eyes;  tie  up  his  chin  ; 

Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 

That  standeth  there  alone,  50 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There  's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 
OUYXR  WKXDELL  HOLMES 

"  We  need  not  trouble  ourselves  abont  the  distinction  between  this 
[the  Pearly  Nautilus]  and  the  Paper  Nautili™,  the  Argonauta  of  the 
ancient*.  The  name  applied  to  both  shows  that  each  haa  long  been 
compared  to  a  ship,  as  jou  may  see  more  f  ull  j  in  Webster's  Dictionary 
or  the  Encyclopaedia,  to  which  he  refers.  If  yon  will  look  into  Koget's 
Bridgevater  TrtaliM,  yon  will  find  a  figure  of  one  of  these  sheila,  and 
a  section  of  it.  The  last  will  show  yon  the  series  of  enlarging  com- 
partments successively  dwelt  in  by  the  animal  that  inhabits  the  shell, 
i.  inbuilt  in  a  widening  spiral.  .  .  . 

I  hare  now  and  then  found  a  naturalist  who  still  worried  over  the 
distinction  between  the  Pearly  Nautilus  and  the  Paper  Nautilus,  or 
Argonaut*.  As  the  stories  abont  both  are  mere  fables,  attaching  to 
the  Physalia,  or  Portuguese  man-of-war,  as  well  aa  to  these  two  nml- 
Insks,  It  aeems  orer-nice  to  quarrel  with  the  poetical  handling  of  a 
fiction  sufficiently  justified  by  the  name  commonly  applied  to  the  nhip 
of  pearl  aa  well  as  the  ship  of  paper."  —  The  Autocrat  of  the  Break- 
faa-TabU. 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pear),  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  iu:iin. 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  siren  sings,  5 

And  coral  reefs  lie  hare, 

Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 


EIGHTH   YEAR  125 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ; 

And  every  chambered  cell,  10 

"Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil  15 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door,  20 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 

From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born  25 

Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll !  30 

Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past ! 

Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 

Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 
Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 

Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea !  35 


126  EIGHTH    YKAK 


THE   NEW   YEAR 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  PATRONS  OF  THE  PENNSYLVANIA 

FREEMAN 
JOHN  GRKKNLEAP  WHITTIEB 

THE  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore, 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime; 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time ! 

O  seer-seen  Angel !  waiting  now,  5 

With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 
That  time  shall  be  no  more ! 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 

The  semblance  of  a  smile  has  passed :        10 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time's  fearfullest  and  last 

Oh,  in  that  dying  year  hath  Wn 
The  sum  of  all  since  time  began ; 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain,  15 

Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

Spring,  with  her  change  of  sun  and  shower, 
And  streams  released  from  Winter's  chain, 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 

And  greenly  growing  grain  ;  20 

And  Summer's  shade,  and  sunshine  warm, 
And  rainbows  o'er  her  hill-tops  bowed, 

And  voices  in  her  rising  storm  ; 
God  speaking  from  his  cloud ! 


EIGHTH   YEAR  127 

And  Autumn's  fruits  and  clustering  sheaves,        25 
And  soft,  warm  days  of  golden  light, 

The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 
And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 

And  prisoned  stream,  and  drifting  snow,  30 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 

And  of  her  earth  below : 

And  man,  in  whom  an  angel's  mind 
With  earth's  low  instincts  finds  abode, 

The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind  35 

Brute  nature  to  her  God ; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 

His  childhood's  merriest  laughter  rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 

The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung !  40 

And  quiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 

Have  soothed  or  burned  in  manhood's  breast, 
And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 

By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born  45 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell ; 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 

And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with  mirth, 

While  Want,  in  many  a  humble  shed,  50 

Toiled,  shivering  by  her  cheerless  hearth, 
The  live-long  night  for  bread. 


128  EIGHTH   YEAR 

And  worse  than  all,  the  human  slave, 
The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and  scorn! 

Plucked  off  the  crown  his  Maker  gave,  55 

I  IIH  regal  manhood  gone ! 

Oh,  still,  my  country!  o'er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and  ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains, 

An  uncreated  man  !  60 

And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 

My  country,  is  thy  flag  unroll rd, 
With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 

A  stain  on  every  fold. 

Oh,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down !  66 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And  despots  smile  and  good  men  frown 

Whene'er  it  passes  by. 

Shame !  shame !  its  starry  splendors  glow 

Above  the  slaver's  loathsome  jail ;  70 

Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 
His  crimson  flag  of  Hale. 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest  hall 
The  trade  in  human  flesh  is  driven. 

And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall  75 

A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by  the  men 
Vested  with  power  to  shield  the  right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 

Wide  open  to  the  light.  80 


EIGHTH    YEAR  129 

Yet,  shame  upon  them !  there  they  sit, 
Men  of  the  North,  subdued  and  still ; 

Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 
To  work  a  master's  will. 

Sold,  bargained  off  for  Southern  votes,  85 

A  passive  herd  of  Northern  mules, 

Just  braying  through  their  purchased  throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

And  he,  the  basest  of  the  base, 

The  vilest  of  the  vile,  whose  name,  90 

Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 

Is  deathless  in  its  shame ! 

A  tool,  to  bolt  the  people's  door 

Against  the  people  clamoring  there, 

An  ass,  to  trample  on  their  floor  95 

A  people's  right  of  prayer ! 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 

Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view, 
A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 

Of  scorn  to  whistle  through  ;  100 

There  let  him  hang,  and  hear  the  boast 
Of  Southrons  o'er  their  pliant  tool,  — 

A  new  Stylites  on  his  post, 
"  Sacred  to  ridicule  !  " 

Look  we  at  home  !  our  noble  hall,  105 

To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 
Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall 

Beneath  the  wintry  heaven, 


130  EIGHTH    YKAR 

Telling  the  story  of  its  doom, 

The  fiendish  mob,  the  prostrate  law,  110 

The  fiery  jet  through  midnight's  gloom, 

Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 

Look  to  our  State !  the  poor  man's  right 
Torn  from  him  :  and  the  sons  of  those 

Whose  blood  in  Freedom's  sternest  fight          115 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey's  snows, 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 

That  Slavery's  guilty  fears  might  cease, 

And  those  whom  God  created  men 

Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace.  120 

Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm 

A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 
And  gleams  of  sunshine,  soft  and  warm, 

Breakthrough  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and  North,  the  shout  is  heard,      125 

Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right : 
Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word, 

Karli  hill  its  signal  light 

O'er  Massachusetts'  rocks  of  gray 

The  strengthening  light  of  freedom  shines,     130 
Rhode  Island's  Narragansett  Bay, 

And  Vermont's  snow-hung  pines ! 

From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 

To  Alleghany's  laurelled  crest, 
O'er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and  glades,     135 

It  shines  upon  the  West. 


EIGHTH   YEAR  131 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 

In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 
And  through  the  blackness  of  that  Hell 

Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in.  140 

So  shall  the  Southern  conscience  quake 
Before  that  light  poured  full  and  strong, 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land  145 

The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 
Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 

Beneath  Arabia's  skies : 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath, 

Our  banner's  shade,  our  eagle's  wing,  150 

From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken  the  bondman's  chain,  and  gone 
The  master's  guilt,  and  hate,  and  fear, 

And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn  155 

A  New  and  Happy  Year. 


ICHABOD 
JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIEB 

So  fallen  I  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore  I 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore ! 


132  EIGHTH    YKAR 

Revile  him  not,  —  the  Tempter  hath       .         5 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall! 

Oh,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might  10 

Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 
Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark,  15 

From  hope  and  heaven! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow.  20 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught  25 

Save  power  remains ; 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone ;  from  those  great  eyea 

The  soul  has  fled  :  30 

When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 
The  man  is  dead  ! 


EIGHTH   YEAR  133 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame  ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze,  35 

And  hide  the  shame ! 


SIR  GALAHAD 

ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

MY  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high,  5 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel ; 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands,  10 

Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end,  15 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall ; 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine ; 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine.  20 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 


134  EIGHTH   YEAR 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes,  25 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns, 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there ;  30 

The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  U-ll  rin«;s,  the  censer  swings,  35 

And  solemn  chaunts  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

1  find  ;i  ina-ir  Lark. 
I  leap  on  board ;  no  helmsman  steers ; 

I  float  till  all  is  dark.  40 

A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ' 

Three  angels  bear  the  Holy  Grail ; 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision !  blood  of  God !  45 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  starlike  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro1  dreaming  towns  I  go,  50 

The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  mom, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and  mail ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads,  55 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields ; 


EIGHTH   YEAR  135 

But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields.  60 

A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease,  65 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear,  70 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  and  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony  •  75 

Swells  up  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear ; 
"O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near."  80 

So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  Holy  Grail. 

THE   LITTLE  LAND* 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON 

WHEN  at  home  alone  I  sit 
And  am  very  tired  of  it, 

1  From  Poems  and  Ballads.  Copyright,  1895, 1896,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


136  EIGHTH    VI   \i: 

I  have  just  to  shut  my  eyes 
To  go  sailing  through  the  skies  — 
'  To  go  sailing  far  away 
To  the  pleasant  Land  of  Play ; 
To  the  fairy  land  afar 
Where  tli.    Little  People  are; 
Where  the  clover- tops  are  trees, 
And  the  rain-pools  are  the  seas, 
And  the  leaves  like  little  ships 
Sail  about  on  tiny  trips ; 
And  above  the  daisy  tree 
Through  the  grasses, 
High  overhead  the  Bumble  Bee 
Hums  and  passes. 

In  that  forest  to  and  fro 

I  can  wander,  I  can  go ; 

See  the  spider  and  the  fly. 

And  the  ants  p<»  uKm-Inni:  l>y 

Carrying  parcels  with  their  feet 

Down  the  green  and  grassy  street 

I  can  in  the  sorrel  sit 

Where  the  ladybird  alit. 

I  can  climb  the  jointed  grass ; 

And  on  high 
See  the  greater  swallows  pass 

In  tin-  .sky, 

And  the  round  sun  rolling  by 
Heeding  no  such  things  as  I. 

Through  that  forest  I  can  pass 
Till,  as  in  a  looking-glass, 
Humming  fly  and  daisy  tree 
And  my  tiny  self  I  see. 


EIGHTH   YEAR  137 

Painted  very  clear  and  neat  35 

On  the  rain-pool  at  my  feet. 

Should  a  leaflet  come  to  land 

Drifting  near  to  where  I  stand, 

Straight  I  '11  board  that  tiny  boat 

Round  the  rain-pool  sea  to  float.  40 

Little  thoughtful  creatures  sit 

On  the  grassy  coasts  of  it; 

Little  things  with  lovely  eyes 

See  me  sailing  with  surprise. 

Some  are  clad  in  armor  green  —  45 

(These  have  sure  to  battle  been !)  — 

Some  are  pied  with  ev'ry  hue, 

Black  and  crimson,  gold  and  blue ; 

Some  have  wings  and  swift  are  gone ;  — 

But  they  all  look  kindly  on.  50 

When  my  eyes  I  once  again 

Open,  and  see  all  things  plain : 

High  bare  walls,  great  bare  floor ; 

Great  big  knobs  on  drawer  and  door  ; 

Great  big  people  perched  on  chairs,  55 

Stitching  tucks  and  mending  tears, 

Each  a  hill  that  I  could  climb, 

And  talking  nonsense  all  the  time  — 

O  dear  me, 

That  I  could  be  60 

A  sailor  on  the  rain-pool  sea, 
A  climber  in  the  clover  tree, 
And  just  come  back,  a  sleepy-head, 
Late  at  night  to  go  to  bed. 


138  KICHTII    YKAU 

SELECTIONS   FROM  SNOW-BOUND 
JOHN  GBKEKLEAF  WHITTIKB 

1111.    IN  OLE 

OUR  uncle,  innocent  of  hooka, 
Was  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks, 
The  ancient  teacher^  never  dumb 
Of  Nature's  un housed  lyceum. 
In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise,  5 

He  read  the  elomU  a>  propheeies, 
And  foul  or  fair  eonld  \\ell  divine, 
By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 
Holding  the  cunning-warded  keys 
To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries;  10 

Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 
That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 
Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 
Lik«  ApoUonitti  of  <dd, 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told,  15 

Or  Hermes,  who  int. M •; •••.  t.-d 
What  the  mige  cranes  of  Nilns  said; 
A  simple,  guileless,  ehildlik*   ii,;,n. 
Content  to  live  when-  lif«'  lie»:in  ; 
Strong  only  on  hi-  native  -rounds  20 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 

4.  The  meaaure  requires  the  accent  ly'ceum,  but  in  stricter 
use  the  accent  is  lyee'um. 

14.  A  philosopher  born  in  the  first  century  of  the  Christian 
era,  of  whom  many  strange  stories  were  told,  especially  regard- 
ing his  converse  with  birds  and  animals. 

16.  Hermes  Trismegistus,  a  celebrated  Egyptian  priest  and 
philosopher,  to  whom  was  attributed  the  revival  of  geometry, 
arithmetic,  and  art  among  the  Egyptians.  He  was  little  later 
than  Apollonius. 


EIGHTH   YEAR  139 

Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 

Whereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 

The  common  features  magnified, 

As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew,  —  25 

In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view,  — 

He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 

And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 

The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done, 

The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun  ;  30 

Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 

Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 

The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 

From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew, 

The  partridge  drummed  i'  the  wood,  the  mink  35 

Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 

In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 

The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gray, 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  his  cell  ; 
The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade,  40 

And  tier  by  tier  his  mud-walls  laid ; 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his  shell. 

THE   AUNT 

Next,  the  dear  aunt,  whose  smile  of  cheer 

And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear,  — 

The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 

Perverse  denied  a  household  mate, 

Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less  5 

26.  Gilbert  White,  of  Selborne,  England,  was  a  clergyman 
who  wrote  the  Natural  History  of  Selborne,  a  minute,  affection- 
ate, and  charming  description  of  what  could  be  seen  as  it  were 
from  his  own  doorstep.  The  accuracy  of  his  observation  and 
the  delightfulness  of  his  manner  have  kept  the  book  a  classic. 


140  KIGHTH   YEAR 

Fouml  peace  in  love's  unselfishness, 

And  welcome  wlirreso'er  she  went, 

A  calm  and  gracious  element, 

Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet  income 

And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home,  —  10 

Called  up  her  girlhood  memories, 

The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees, 

The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails, 

Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 

And  homespun  warp  of  cnvnm-tunce  15 

A  golden  woof- thread  of  romance. 

For  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 

And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood  ; 

Before  her  still  a  cloud-land  lay, 

The  mirage  loomed  across  her  way ;  20 

The  morning  dew,  that  dried  so  soon 

With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon  ; 

Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care, 

From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair, 

AH  uu profaned  the  held  apart  25 

The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart. 

Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 

Who  had  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

I  UK   END  OF  THE   DAT 

At  last  the  great  logs,  rmmliling  low, 

Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow, 

The  bull's-eye  watch  that  hung  in  view, 

Ticking  its  weary  cm-nit  through, 

Pointed  with  mutely- warn  ing  sign  5 

Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine. 

That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke : 

My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 

Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse  gray, 


EIGHTH   YEAR  141 

And  laid  it  tenderly  away,  10 

Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover 

The  dull  red  brand  with  ashes  over. 

And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 

The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 

One  moment,  seeking  to  express  15 

Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness 

For  food  and  shelter,  warmth  and  health, 

And  love's  contentment  more  than  wealth, 

With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak, 

Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment  seek,  20 

But  such  as  warm  the  generous  heart, 

O'er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its  part) 

That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night, 

For  bread  and  clothing,  warmth  and  light. 

Within  our  beds,  awhile  we  heard  25 

The  wind  that  round  the  gables  roared, 

With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 

Which  made  our  very  bedsteads  rock. 

We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards  tost, 

The  board-nails  snapping  in  the  frost ;  30 

And  on  us,  through  the  un plastered  wall, 

Felt  the  lightsifted  snow-flakes  fall ; 

But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 

When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is  new ; 

Faint  and  more  faint  the  murmurs  grew,  35 

Till  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams 

They  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 

Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 

And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 

MORNING 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the  shout 
Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear ; 


KK.HTH    YKAR 

And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 

To  break  tin-  <1  rifted  highways  out. 

Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow  5 

We  saw  tin*  half  !>urie<l  oxen  go, 

Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  uptost, 

Their  straining  nostrils  white  with  frost. 

Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 

Drew  up,  an  added  train  t«»  gain.  10 

The  elders  thresli.-d  tln-ir  hands  a-cold, 
Passed,  with  the  cider-mug,  their  jokes 
From  lip  to  lip  :  the  younger  folks 

Down  the  loose  snow-banks,  wrestling,  rolled, 

Then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade  15 

O'er  windy  hill,  through  clogged  ravine, 
An<l  woodland  paths  that  wound  between 

Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter-weighed. 

From  every  barn  a  team  afoot, 

At  every  house  a  new  recruit.  20 

Where,  drawn  by  Nature's  subtlest  law, 

Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw 

Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  cm  U 

And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 

Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence  25 

Against  the  snow-ball*'  compliments, 

And  reading  in  each  missive  tost 

The  charm  which  Eden  never  lost. 


THE  PARABLE  OF  THE  SOWER 

THE   BIBLE 

AND  Jesus  began  again  to  teach  by  the  sea-side :  and 
there  was  gathered  unto  him  a  great  multitude,  so 
that  he  entered  into  a  ship,  and  sat  in  the  sea;  and 


EIGHTH   YEAR  143 

the  whole  multitude  was  by  the  sea  on  the  land.  And 
he  taught  them  many  things  by  parables,  and  said  unto 
them  in  his  doctrine,  Hearken  ;  Behold,  there  went 
out  a  sower  to  sow  :  and  it  came  to  pass,  as  he  sowed, 
some  fell  by  the  way-side,  and  the  fowls  of  the  air  came 
and  devoured  it  up.  And  some  fell  on  stony  ground, 
where  it  had  not  much  earth ;  and  immediately  it  sprang 
up,  because  it  had  no  depth  of  earth :  but  when  the  sun 
was  up,  it  was  scorched ;  and  because  it  had  no  root, 
it  withered  away.  And  some  fell  among  thorns,  and 
the  thorns  grew  up,  and  choked  it,  and  it  yielded  no 
fruit.  And  other  fell  on  good  ground,  and  did  yield 
fruit  that  sprang  up  and  increased  ;  and  brought  forth, 
some  thirty,  and  some  sixty,  and  some  an  hundred. 
And  he  said  unto  them,  He  that  hath  ears  to  hear,  let 
him  hear. 

And  when  he  was  alone,  they  that  were  about  him 
with  the  twelve  asked  of  him  the  parable.  And  he 
said  unto  them,  Unto  you  it  is  given  to  know  the  mys- 
tery of  the  kingdom  of  God:  but  unto  them  that  are 
without,  all  these  things  are  done  in  parables :  that 
seeing  they  may  see,  and  not  perceive ;  and  hearing 
they  may  hear,  and  not  understand  ;  lest  at  any  time 
they  should  be  converted,  and  their  sins  should  be 
forgiven  them.  And  he  said  unto  them,  Know  ye 
not  this  parable?  and  how  then  will  ye  know  all  par- 
ables ?  The  sower  soweth  the  word.  And  these  are 
they  by  the  way-side,  where  the  word  is  sown ;  but, 
when  they  have  heard,  Satan  cometh  immediately,  and 
taketh  away  the  word  that  was  sown  in  their  hearts. 
And  these  are  they  likewise  which  are  sown  on  stony 
ground ;  who,  when  they  have  heard  the  word,  imme- 
diately receive  it  with  gladness ;  and  have  no  root  in 
themselves,  and  so  endure  but  for  a  time.  Afterward, 


144  EIGHTH  YEAR 

when  affliction  or  persecution  ariseth  for  the  word's 
sake,  inuni-diately  they  an-  offended.  And  these  are 
they  which  are  sown  anmn^  thorny;  such  as  hear  the 
word,  and  the  cares  of  this  world,  and  tin-  deceitful- 
Beit  of  riches,  and  tin-  lusts  of  other  things  entering 
in,  choke  the  word,  and  it  become th  unfruitful.  And 
these  are  they  which  are  ><>wn  on  good  ground  ;  such 
as  hear  the  word,  and  receive  it,  and  bring  forth  fruit, 
some  thirty-fold,  some  sixty,  and  some  an  hundred. 


THE   RETURN   OF    I  HI     BIRDS 
WILLIAM  CULLKN  BRTAKT 

I  IIKAR,  from  many  a  little  throat, 
A  warble  interrupted  long  ; 

I  h.-ar  th.-  rol.in's  Hute-like  note, 
The  bluebird's  slenderer  song. 

Brown  meadows  and  the  russet  hill,  5 

Not  yet  the  haunt  of  grazing  herds, 

And  thickets  by  the  glimmering  rill, 
Are  all  alive  with  birds. 

O  choir  of  spring,  why  come  so  soon  ? 

On  leafless  grove  and  herbless  lawn  10 

Warm  lie  the  yellow  beams  of  moon ; 

Yet  winter  is  not  gone. 

For  frost  shall  sheet  the  pools  again  ; 

Again  the  blustering  East  shall  blow  — 
Whirl  a  white  tempest  through  the  glen,       15 

And  load  the  pines  with  snow. 


EIGHTH  YEAR  145 

Yet,  haply,  from  the  region  where, 

Waked  by  an  earlier  spring  than  here, 

The  blossomed  wild-plum  scents  the  air, 

Ye  come  in  haste  and  fear.  20 

For  there  is  heard  the  bugle-blast, 

The  booming  gun,  the  jarring  drum, 
And  on  their  chargers,  spurring  fast, 

Armed  warriors  go  and  come. 
• 
There  mighty  hosts  have  pitched  the  camp        25 

In  valleys  that  were  yours  till  then, 
And  Earth  has  shuddered  to  the  tramp 

Of  half  a  million  men ! 

In  groves  where  once  ye  used  to  sing, 

In  orchards  where  ye  had  your  birth,  30 

A  thousand  glittering  axes  swing 
To  smite  the  trees  to  earth. 

Ye  love  the  fields  by  ploughmen  trod  ; 

But  there,  when  sprouts  the  beechen  spray, 
The  soldier  only  breaks  the  sod  35 

To  hide  the  slain  away. 

Stay,  then,  beneath  our  ruder  sky; 

Heed  not  the  storm-clouds  rising  black, 
Nor  yelling  winds  that  with  them  fly ; 

Nor  let  them  fright  you  back,  —  40 

Back  to  the  stifling  battle-cloud, 
To  burning  towns  that  blot  the  day, 

And  trains  of  mounting  dust  that  shroud 
The  armies  on  their  way. 


146  EIGHTH  YEAR 

Stay,  for  a  tint  of  green  shall  creep  45 

Soon  o'er  the  orchard's  grassy  floor, 

And  from  its  bed  the  crocus  peep 
Beside  the  housewife's  door. 

Here  build,  and  dread  no  harsher  sound, 

To  scare  you  from  the  sheltering  tree,  50 

Thau  winds  that  stir  the  branches  round, 
And  murmur  of  the  bee. 

And  we  will  pray  that,  ere  again 

The  flowers  of  autumn  bloom  and  die, 

Our  generals  and  their  strong-iii-int-d  men 
May  lay  their  weapons  by. 

Then  may  ye  warble,  unafraid, 

\V  here  hands,  that  wear  the  fetter  now, 

Free  as  your  wings  shall  ply  the  spade, 

And  guide  the  peaceful  plough.  6C 


MY  NATIVE  LAND 

(Prom  the  Lay  of  the  Lwt  Mimtnl) 
SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

BREATHES  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  >:«M, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  la  i ».!'.' 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name,- 


EIGHTH   YEAR  147 

Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim ;  10 

Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 

The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 

Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 

And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 

To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung,  15 

Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

CROSSING  THE  BAR 
ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 

SUNSET  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep,  5 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark !  10 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark ; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face  15 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS 

ANDERSEN,  HANS  CHRISTIAN 

The  Ugly  Duckling,  11. 
BIBLE,  THE 

The   Nineteenth   Psalm,  92;    The   One  Hundred  and 

Twenty-First  Psalm,  31 ;  The  Parable  of  the  Sower,  142. 
BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN 

Abraham  Lincoln,  53 ;  March,  9  ;  The  Return  of   the 

Birds,  144 ;  To  a  Waterfowl,  85. 
BURTON,  RICHARD 

Christmastide,  73. 
BYRON,  LORD 

Washington  (from  Ode  to  Napoleon  Buonaparte),  80. 
GARY,  PHCEBE 

The  Leak  in  the  Dike,  37  ;  Little  Gottlieb,  48. 
DRAKE,  JOSEPH  RODMAN 

The  American  Flag,  118. 
FIELD,  EUGENE 

Dutch  Lullaby,  22. 
FINCH,  FRANCIS  MILES 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray,  60. 
GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER 

The  Village  Preacher  (from  The  Deserted  Village),  114. 
HEMANS,  FELICIA  D. 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  in  New  England, 

46 ;  The  Voice  of  Spring,  34. 
HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL 

The  Chambered  Nautilus,  124 ;  Old  Ironsides,  32. 
HOOD,  THOMAS 

I  Remember,  I  Remember,  33. 
JACKSON,  HELEN  HUNT 

October's  Bright  Blue  Weather,  2 ;  September,  1. 


150  INDKX    OF    AITHORS 

Ki  v.   FKAV  is  S<  OTT 

The  St:n  Spangled  Banner,  54. 
KIPLING,  KUDYARD 

The  Recessional,  113. 
LINCOLN,  ABRAHAM 

Gettysburg  Speech,  106. 

LONGFKLLOW,    Hl.NKV     WAD8WOBTH 

The  Children's  Hour.  7  ;  The  Legend  of  the  Crossbill, 

82 ;  Paul  Revere's  Ride,  55 ;  The  Village  Blacksmith, 

14 
LOWELL.  JAMKM  RUSSELL 

The  First  Snow-Fall,  f> ;   Midnight.  97  ;  The  Oak.  1<>7  ; 

The  Present  Crisis,   99 :  To  the  Dandelion,   109 ;  To 

William   LUd   <  Jarrison,   111;    Wnid.-!!    Phillip*,  97; 

Yussouf,  91. 
MOORE,  THOMAS 

Those  Evening  Bells.  106. 
MOBRJB,  GEORGE  POPE 

Woodman,  "Spare  That  Tree,  62. 
NEWMAN,  JOHN  HENRY 

Leadly,  Kindly  Light,  46. 
O*HARA,  THEODORE 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  87. 
RUSK  IN,  JOHN 

Cluck's  Visitor.  64. 
s-  "ii.  Bin   WALTER 

My  Native  Land  <  t,,,,,,  The  Lay  of  the  I         M 

146. 
SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYBSHK 

Th- Cl,,u, I.  70. 
SMITH,  SAMUEL  FRANCIS 

America,  52. 
STKVKNSON,   KOHKKT   Lorn 

The  Little  Land,  Kr»  ;  Winter-Time,  7. 
TKNNYSMV,   ALKI:KI».    LOUD 

The  Brook,  17;  Crossing  the  Bar,  147;  The  Death  of 

the  Old  Year,  122  ;  Sir  Galahad,  133  ;  Sweet  and  Low,  10. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


151 


THAXTER,  CELIA 

Maize,  The  Nation's  Emblem,  69 ;  The  Sparrows,  26. 

VAN  DYKE,  HENRY 

The  Ruby-Crowned  Kinglet,  83. 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF 

Abraham  Davenport,  116;  Barbara  Frietchie,  43;  The 
Barefoot  Boy,  19;  The  Corn-Song,  3;  For  an  Autumn 
Festival,  120  ;  The  Frost  Spirit,  104  ;  The  Huskei-s,  93  ; 
Ichabod,  131  ;  King  Solomon  and  the  Ants,  73  ;  The 
New  Year,  126;  Snow-Bound  (Selections):  The  Aunt, 
139  ;  The  End  of  the  Day,  140  ;  The  Kitchen  Scene, 
29  ;  Morning,  141 ;  The  Mother,  75 ;  The  Schoolmas- 
ter, 78 ;  The  Sisters,  76 ;  The  Storm,  28 ;  The  Uncle, 
138. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Abraham  Davenport,  116. 
Abraham  Lincoln,  53. 
America,  52. 
American  Flag,  The,  118. 

Barbara  Frietchie,  43. 
Barefoot  Boy,  The,  19. 
Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  The,  87. 
Blue  and  the  Gray,  The,  60. 
Brook,  The,  17. 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The,  124. 
Children's  Hour,  The,  7. 
Christmastide,  73. 
Cloud,  The,  70.  . 
Corn-Song,  The,  3. 
Crossing  the  Bar,  147. 

Death  of  the  Old  Year,  The,  122. 
Dutch  Lullaby,  22. 

First  Snow-Fall,  The,  5. 

For  an  Autumn  Festival,  120. 

Frost  Spirit,  The,  104. 


Gettysburg  Speech,  106. 
Gluck's  Visitor,  64. 

Huskers,  The,  93. 

I  Remember,  I  Remember,  33. 
Ichabod,  131. 

King   Solomon   and  the   Ants, 


Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 
in  New  England,  The,  40. 

Lead,  Kindly  Light,  46. 

Leak  in  the  'Dike,  The,  37. 

Legend  of  the  Crossbill,  Tin-. 
82. 

Little  Gottlieb,  48. 

Little  Land,  The,  135. 

Maize,  The  Nation's  Emblem, 

69. 

March,  9. 
Midnight,  97. 


152 


INDKX    OF   TITLES 


My  Native  Land  (from  The 
Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel), 
1445. 

New  Year,  The,  126. 
Nineteenth  Psalm,  The,  92. 

Oak,  The,  107. 

October's  Bright  Blue  Weather, 

2. 
Old  Ironsides,  32. 

OIH-  1 1  ii mired  and  Twenty-First 
Psalm,  The,  .il 

Parable  of  the  Sower,  The,  142. 
Paul  Revere**  Ride,  66. 
Present  Crisis,  The,  09. 

Recessional,  I 

Return  of  the  Birds,  The,  144. 

Ruby-Crowned    Kinglet,  The, 

H,J. 

September,  1. 

Sir  Galahad,  138. 

Snow-Bound  (Selections):  The 
Aunt,  139:  The  End  of  the 
Day,  140;  The  K 

29 ;    Morning,    111; 


The  Mother,  75  ;  The  School- 
master,  78  ;  The  Sisters.  76  j 
The  Storm,  28;  The  Urn-It- , 
138. 

Sparrows,  The,  26. 

Star-Spangled  Banner,  The,  64, 

Sweet  and  Low,  10. 

Those  Evening  Bells,  106. 

To  a  Waterfowl,  86. 

To  the  Dandelion,  109. 

To    William    Lloyd   Garrison, 

111. 

Ugly  Duckling,  The,  11. 

Village  Blacksmith,  The,  24. 
Village  Preacher,  The,    (from 
•  Deserted  Village),  114 
Voice  of  Spring,  The,  34. 

Washington  (from  Ode  tc 
Napoleon  Buonaparte),  80 

Wendell  1'hillipa,  OT. 

Winter-Time,  7. 

Woodman,  Spare  That  Tree, 
62. 

Yll.HHOIlf,    1U. 


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